
Gass. 
Book- 



\ 



L U C I X D A : 



OB THE 



MOUNTAIN MOURNER. 



AUTHENTIC FACTS, 



SERIES OF LETT! 



v 






MRS. MAN VIM.. 

■ 



t ii i it i> i; i> i t i o 




ALBANY: 
J. MUNSELL, 58 STATE STREET. 

185 



'252, 



Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1852, 

by Elias F. Mantill, 

in the clerk s office, for the Northern District of Xew York. 






TO THE PUBLIC. 

We, the undersigned, having perused the Book 
titled, Luanda; or the Mountain Mourner, §x., 
commend it to the attention of the American pub- 
^, and particularly to the young and inexperienced, 
possessing, from its being founded on realities, 
perior merit to most publications of a similar 
i 'ture. It contains, according to the best informa- 
>n (and some of us are thoroughly acquainted with 
any of the circumstances therein recorded) a narra- 
tive statement of the most incontestable facts ; and 
is well calculated to afford not only amusement, but 
useful instruction, to every reader of sensibility and 
reflection. 

ELIAS GILBERT, M. of the Gospel, Greenfield. 
MARK A. CHILD. 
EZRA NASH, Justice of the Peace. 
E. WHITE, Jun., Merchant, Ballston Spa. 
PRINCE WING, 

NOAH WEED, Members of the Society of 

DAVID DUEL, Friends 

BENJAMIN PECK, 
ASA C. BARNEY, M. D., Greenfield. 
* CHAS. DEAKE, Deacon of a B. C, Greenfield. 
LEMUEL SMITH, M. of the Gospel, Canajoharie. 



The following communication from the Honorable 
Salmon Child, Esq., First Judge of the Court of 
Common Pleas of the County of Saratoga, and Col. 
John Prior, while it establishes the authenticity of 
the succeeding pages beyond all contradiction, will 
be read with peculiar interest. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE SECOND EDITION OF 

LUCINDA; OR THE MOUNTAIN MOURNER. 

Sir, — Having been frequently solicited by indi- 
viduals, to relate the melancholy scene that took 
place when we attended, as magistrates, to the 
enquiry of the last place of legal residence of 
Lucinda, and her means of subsistence; we the more 
readily comply with your request in furnishing you 
for publication, a short narrative of the facts to 
which we were witnesses, and our opinion of the 
history of Lucinda, as wrote by Mrs. Manvill. 

In the fore part of May, 1806, we were called 
upon to make the above enquiry by virtue of a 
complaint, stating that a daughter of Mr. Manvill 
had come to reside with him, in a situation which 
rendered it probable the town would be put to 
expense on her account, should she be suffered 
to remain with her father. 

Mr. Manvill is reputed to be an honest, upright 
man; well read, of good behaviour, and possessing 
rather a philosophical turn of mind ; of an easy 



6 

disposition, and not very anxious to accumulate 
property. He had generally taught school for a 
livelihood, and like most others who have undertaken 
to support a family by that honorable and important 
calling, had been familiar with poverty, till com- 
pelled by necessity to seek a living by some other 
employment. But he was too far advanced in life 
to accumulate wealth by manual labor, and was of 
course poorly qualified to encounter the fatigues 
consequent on cultivating a mountainous desert. 

Mrs. Manvill bears an unimpeachable character; 
is affable and genteel in her deportment; exceeding 
kind and benevolent, and remarkably attentive to the 
sick and distressed. Her expertness with the needle 
(being a seamstress) procured the principal support 
of the family. From this circumstance, it was 
natural to conclude, that should Lucinda (of whose 
character we knew nothing, our conjectures being 
unfavorable merely from her situation) be ill any 
considerable time, or her benevolent mother by 
any unfortunate occurrence, rendered unable to 
pursue her wonted industry, assistance from the over- 
seers of the poor would be necessary. Under these 
impressions, which chiefly originated from others 
who had an opportunity of being better acquainted 



7 
with the family than ourselves, we agreed on a day 
when we would attend to the enquiries and pro- 
ceedings, enjoined on us by law. 

On the day appointed, we arrived at the foot of 
the Kayaderosseras Mountain, situated at the west 
part of the town, where we left our horses and pro- 
ceeded on foot. We ascended on a fertile soil over 
improved land, and the air being clear and serene, 
we had a pleasing prospect of a very considerable 
part of the county of Saratoga, a part of the coun- 
ties of Washington and Rensselaer, and south of us 
as far as the Catskill Mountains. We passed on 
slowly, every few rods stopping and looking back 
on the wide extended country behind us j little 
thinking of the wonderful exhibitions that were 
before us. We however had concluded, that we 
should not be unwelcome guests to Mrs. Manvill; 
that she would consider her toils already sufficiently 
great, without any further addition to her family, 
and rejoice to be freed from the burden of doing for 
a daughter-in-law, under circumstances so disagree- 
able; but the variety of pleasing objects within our 
view, afforded us little time to reflect on the situation 
of the unfortunate and distressed. 

At length we suddenly descended into a valley. 



8 

thickly covered with hemlock; then again ascending 
over irregular hills and precipices, we were totally 
secluded from those beauties of nature we had so 
recently admired; and almost as suddenly were our 
minds enveloped in sorrow. We soon came up 
to Mr. Manvill, whose countenance bespoke the 
afflictions of his heart, having anticipated the object 
of our visit. After passing the usual compliments, 
we mentioned our business; he gave us a short 
account of the seduction of his daughter by Brown; 
his son's journey to the westward, and the promises 
that Brown had made of coming and atoning for his 
perfidy. He then invited us into his habitation, the 
outside of which had the appearance of extreme 
poverty; but the inside was more comfortable than 
what we had expected. The apartment which we 
entered, was very clean. Every thing we saw, 
demonstrated the neatness and industry of Mrs. 
Manvill. In one corner of the room was a reservoir 
erected, into which there was constantly running a 
small stream of water, conducted from an adjacent 
hill; and by the same means carried out at the back 
part of the cottage, which, being but dimly lighted 
and standing in a solitary place, the sound of the 
water gently falling from the conductors, all con- 



9 

spired to awaken the monitor within, and greatly 
added to the solemnity of the subsequent scene of 
woe. 

Mrs. Manvill received us with becoming decency, 
but not with her usual sprightliness. Mr. Manvill 
went directly to the apartment where Lucinda had 
retired. Mrs. Manvill soon understood our business, 
and her anxiety and distress for Lucinda, in spite of 
all her resolution, instantly trickled from her eyes, 
and silently accused us of having been altogether 
ignorant of her character, when we concluded she 
would gladly part with her visitor. Indeed, such 
god-like excellency shone in her tender concern for 
Lucinda, as we had never before witnessed in a 
mother-in-law; a virtue of infinite more worth than 
the mines of Peru — more durable than the founda- 
tions of the mountain on which we stood. Did 
step mothers always possess that virtue, their very 
countenances would tend to soothe the distresses of 
the bereaved children of their care. 

But, to return. Soon after Mr. Manvill entered 
the apartment of Lucinda, we heard her sighs and 
groans. He returned, and Mrs. Manvill attended 
her. Their mingled lamentations, were sufficient to 
have moved the heart of the most obdurate. Her 



10 

parents attended her alternately for a considerable 
length of time. At length she made her appearance, 
accompanied by her mother. They had both en- 
deavored to compose themselves, and had so far 
succeeded, as to appear the more interesting. 
Lucinda, if not a beauty, was graceful and delicate; 
and although the tears were wiped from her face, 
her countenance bespoke the keenest sorrow, while 
her eyes expressed the sensibility of her soul. Mrs. 
Manvill introduced her to us, when we proceeded to 
the examination of her last place of legal residence. 
We first took the affidavit of her father, and then 
administered to her the requisite oath. She behaved 
with great reverence to the Supreme Being on the 
solemn occasion; was candid and intelligent in her 
answers, and the relation she gave of the places in 
which she had resided, and of the families in which 
she had lived. We never beheld more sedateness in 
a witness on any occasion whatever, and so inte- 
resting was the scene, that we endeavored to comfort 
her and her distressed parents with every consolation 
that came to our recollection, or that the circum- 
stances of the case would permit. 

We then went out to converse by ourselves. But 
the interview within made such an impression on our 



11 

minds, and the circumstances were so intricate, that 
we were totally at a loss in what manner to proceed. 
Mrs. Manvill had by her extraordinary tenderness 
and benevolent conduct towards Lucinda, greatly 
added to the esteem we had entertained for her, 
which made us unwilling to add to her troubles, 
were it possible to prevent it, and at the same time 
fulfill our duty to the town. To give notice that 
Lucinda must leave the place in so many days, 
unless security was given to indemnify the town 
from expense, looked like adding affliction to afflic- 
tion: though at that time we had not the least 
information of her ill health, or of her being in that 
habitual, disconsolate state of mind, with which we 
were afterwards made acquainted. Our greatest 
concern for Lucinda, was immediate consequences. 
We sometimes thought the gloom we had passed 
through so shortly after the pleasing prospects of the 
morning, had made us unreasonably timid, though 
perhaps neither of us are noted for timidity. We 
finally concluded, that we would inform them in as 
gentle a manner as possible, what our duty was, 
agreeably to the principles of the law. Mr. Manvill 
was silent, and appeared to know not what to say. A 
flood of tears gushed from the eyes of Mrs. Manvill, 



12 

who expressed herself in nearly the following words: 
" We are poor; I know not that we can give any 
security but our industry. I will do as long as I can 
crawl, rather than have the poor, suffering, innocent 
Lucinda torn from us in her present situation. She 
is the most extraordinary person I ever saw; her 
distressed soul is constantly grieving for the disgrace 
and trouble she conceives she has brought upon us. 
The sighs and groans of her wounded heart, are to 
be heard day and night! So fearful is she of injuring 
others, that she sometimes pleads for the viper that 
has given her the mortal wound, and can hardly be 
willing to have him brought to justice; and must 
she now be cast among strangers, who know not the 
glowing virtues of her heart? " Here her soul 
seemed to burst; but after a short pause, she ex- 
claimed: "Does the rigor of the law know no 
mercy? " Our reply and the closing part of the 
scene, you will see stated in Letter XVIII, of Mrs. 
Manvill to her sister. 

We then took our leave of them, and proceeded down 
the mountain with sensations quite the reverse of those 
we possessed when we ascended it. The beauties of 
nature and distant prospects had lost their charms; 
and our minds were attracted by the more noble and 



13 

durable excellencies of virtue. We could not but reca- 
pitulate the unparalleled affection of the step-mother, 
and the uncommon sensibility of the daughter-in-law. 
We were pained with anxiety for the safety of 
Lucinda, and almost trembled when we anticipated 
the probable effects of our visit on her mind, in the 
disconsolate and precarious circumstances to which 
she was reduced ; sometimes reflecting on our- 
selves for not having used more precaution, and for 
not having enquired more particularly of Mrs. Man- 
vill concerning her. The case was so uncommon, 
that when other objects became the subject of re- 
mark, we could not confine our conversation to 
them; some new recollection of what had so recently 
transpired, would crowd every other consideration 
from our minds. For several days, nay weeks, the 
melancholy scene of that day, would almost present 
the unfortunate sufferer in person to our imaginations. 
From the information we have received from the 
physicians who attended Lucinda during her whole 
illness — from the neighbors and others, from whom 
we have been able to obtain information on the 
subject — and from our own personal knowledge, put 
it beyond a doubt that the history of Lucinda is 
founded on the most incontestable facts ; and in our 
2 



14 

opinion, is the purest source of instruction and 
admonition to the youth of both sexes — and the 
brightest ornament of a mother-in-law, of any thing 
of the kind we have ever seen in print. 

SALMON CHILD. 
Greenfield, JOHN PRIOR. 

July 31, 1810. 



TO THE READER. 

To tell you that I have been urged 
against my own inclinations, to enter on 
this truly painful task, would be deviating 
from that which I humbly trust will be 
the governing principles of my life : And 
though the request of those friends who 
partake of a heart-felt interest in pro- 
moting the work, may have had great in- 
fluence ; yet the conscious duty I owe an 
Innocent Orphan, cast on a world of un- 
feeling conjecture (exclusive of what is 
due to the deceased, and those of the 
present and future generations, who are 
desirous of profiting by the awful warn- 
ing it contains) has determined me to offer 
to the public, in a series of letters dedi- 
cated to my Sister, a melancholy narra- 



16 
tive ; depending for its recommendation, 
on the sacred truths it contains. 

And shall we, my friends, while the 
tears of sensibility flow in torrents, at the 
doubtful sufferings of fictitious greatness, 
refuse the gentle tribute to the suffering 
daughter of humility ? 



LUCINDA; OR THE MOUNTAIN MOURNER. 

LETTEK I. 

Greenfield, July 20th, 1806. 
Dear Sister, 

You are alarmed at my long silence, 
and fear that the heart, whose every sen- 
sation you once knew and affectionately 
approved, has suffered a material change. 
You mistake the cause. Learn it then, 
from a series of writings, which I pre- 
sume will sufficiently elucidate it, and 
convince you that for many months* I 
have had no time to devote to you. Ever 
accustomed to receiving the most mel- 
ancholy epistles from your sister, you will 
not be surprised to find, that Providence, 
for wise purposes, still holds out to her the 
cup of affliction. May she be enabled 
with cheerful submission, to bow to the 
throne of Omnipotence ; and with hum- 
ble gratitude, receive the bitter draught. 
My next shall present you with a clue, 
which leads to my sorrowful tale. 



18 



LETTER II. 

You are acquainted with the principles 
on which I united myself to one of the 
best of men ; and our consequeut retire- 
ment from a world, which had measurably 
denied to each its common enjoyments. 
On the Kayaderosseras Mountain, by the 
side of a beautiful and never failing 
stream, we built our humble cot. The 
surrounding scenes like the friendly moni- 
tor of the soul, were calculated to inspire 
and perpetuate those sacred reflections, 
which lead to real and permanent happi- 
ness, Thus mutually contemplating the 
beauties of creation, did we frequently 
traverse the surrounding forests — climb 
the ragged rocks — and happy, supreme- 
ly happy, in the reciprocal affection and 
esteem of each other — while we smiled 
at the rude scene which conveyed such 
unaffected delight. Thus employed, the 
moments fled on the wings of bliss, which 
were allotted for a temporary relaxation 



19 

from labor; we returned again to the 
cheerful mansion, characterized by love, 
peace and humility — where no other em- 
barrassments awaited us, than such as 
are ever inseparable from indigence ; nor 
knew we of wretchedness, but by the 
power of recollection. Our affections were 
by no means circumscribed to ourselves 
alone ; our children in common, when 
with us, shared an equal love and atten- 
tion. My little daughter was his — his con- 
sisting of six in number, four sons and two 
daughters, were mine; and though only 
two, which were sous, occasionally re- 
sided with us; yet the other, (the oldest 
son excepted, who was settled in life) each 
living with a sister of their deceased 
mother, whom they loved, and by whom 
they were tenderly regarded, we were 
happy on their account. And although 
they were at a distance from us, yet we 
felt no other solicitude, than that which 
naturally arises in the bosom of paternal 
fondness, under such privations. 

Four years had elapsed since our resi- 
dence in this sequestered spot ; and each 



20 

annual revolution brought with it, some 
new source of happiness. The lenient 
hand of time, seeming to promise in the 
decline of life, to reward past sufferings 
by an uninterrupted course of felicity. 
Blessed days of delusion — never to re- 
turn. 

Thou sacred source of intellectual love ; 
Supreme thy power — unerring thy decree : 
On wings of mercy, waft my soul above ; 
And let me rest, my hope, and life on thee. 

Pardon this digression, my Dear Sister 
— my soul instinctively addressed the 
throne of Grace ; and I found myself un- 
able to proceed with my subject. 






21 



LETTER III. 

In October last, we received a letter 
from our oldest daughter who had resided 
in Marcellus, in the western part of the 
state for almost three years. She informed 
lift, that she had returned to Troy ; and 
was then at an uncle's there, waiting a 
convenient opportunity to make us a visit* 
Why it should be so, I could not compre- 
hend ; but I was far from being happy at 
the intelligence ; my heart foreboded the 
most painful consequences. We had 
been informed that she received the ad- 
dresses of a Mr. Brown, who had a long 
time previous to her departure from this 
quarter, professed an unbounded attach- 
ment to her. Her father could scarce be- 
lieve it possible, as he had ever supposed 
him indifferent to her, since she for many 
months at first, refused his suit. Had it 
been otherwise, doubtless the tenderness 
of a fond parent, would have suggested to 



22 

her the danger of a connection with a 
man, whose only recommendation was 
industry. And although that may be con- 
sidered as one of the moral virtues, and is 
essentially necessary in the character of a 
good citizen — a good husband, or a father 
of a family ; yet beneath the shadow of 
economy, may be shrouded every vice 
that can taint the human heart, or meet 
the approbation of the fallen angels. 

But to return to my narrative. The 
three following months after the receipt 
of her letter, passed without further news 
from her. I was by no means happy, when 
one day sitting by the fire with my little 
daughter, immersed in the volumes of 
futurity (my husband being engaged in 
some domestic concerns without) I was 
aroused from my stupor by a knock at the 
door. A youth entered — and although 
my business with my needle, brought al- 
most every day some stranger to our cot- 
tage, yet I felt an unaccountable emotion 
and interest in the countenance of this 
young man. He enquired for Mr. Man- 
rill; my heart immediately acknowledged 



23 

him for our youngest son, whom I had 
never seen. I rose, took his hand, " You 
are his son, I presume." " I am." " Can 
you then look on me as your mother." I 
could say no more ; my heart was full. 
" I can madam," replied the sweet youth ; 
whom I could have pressed to my bosom, 
and called on the shade of his departed 
mother, to have witnessed the ailcction 
and pity I felt for her darling son. "We 
both stood for a moment, when recollect- 
ing myself T asked him if he was alone — 
he told me his sisters * el a sleigh at 

the door. I accompanied him to them; 
the youngest of whom likewise, I had 
never seen. And while my heart bade 
them welcome to the rural roof, even- 
faculty of my soul seemed absorbed in the 
most undescribable sensations, which was 
not in my power, for many hours, to over- 
come. 

After their father was called in, and 
the mutual ceremonies over, Lucinda 
(that was the name of the eldest daugh- 
ter) observed with a look which seemed 
to ask for sympathy, that she had 



24 

brought a trunk with some other arti- 
cles, intending with our permission,. to 
stay some time with us. Her looks 
were more particularly directed towards 
me; most probably wishing to develop 
my thoughts. Misconstruing her sen- 
timents, I aimed at being cheerful; and 
told her with a smile that illy accorded 
with my feelings, "that it should de- 
pend upon her merit." Cruel words ; how 
often have I reproached myself for my 
ill-timed raillery ; how little did I think 
I was throwing a javelin at a wounded 
heart. While I was preparing some re- 
freshment, she made some remarks on 
the duty of filial obedience, and the im- 
becility of forming hasty judgments ; I 
collected from her observations, some 
unconnected ideas of what was passing 
in her heart ; yet little did I know the 
struggles it must have felt, before it 
yielded to a desire of returning to a 
father, whose protection she had volun- 
tarily left, at a time when her attention 
was perhaps necessary to his happiiuv 
and now she knew not the reception she 



25 

should meet. After supper, the conver- 
sation turned on different subjects; her 
father and brothers, who had come in 
(being at that time at home) took notice 
of her altered manners ; for myself, she 
was so much a stranger to me, that had 
the change been still more apparent, I 
could not have known it. 

A sudden dizziness in my head, com- 
pels me to bid you adieu. You will soon 
hear again from your friend and sister. 



26 



LETTER IV. 

Shall I tell you my dear Nancy, how I 
have spent this morning? "Yes," you 
say. Attend then, and no not call me 
romantic; for believe me, I do not feel a 
single sensation, that can entitle me to 
such an epithet. I arose, intending to 
have devoted a few hours to you, having 
made some previous arrangements, as you 
may perhaps recollect, that the morning 
was ever my favorite time for writing ; 
my mind being then free from all the 
cares and fatigues of the day. Endeav- 
oring, however, before I took my pen, to 
recollect a few circumstances which had 
been partly eradicated from my mind, in 
the long series of events which succeed- 
ed, I was imperceptibly led into a train 
of painful reflections, which totally un- 
fitted me for such an employment. The 
sun rose with unusual splendor; but it^> 
rays had no power, or at least no com- 



27 

mission to illume my heart. I could not 
help asking myself, why I was thus dis- 
tressed; when perhaps there were thou, 
sands in the world, wading through the 
same channel of affliction, with fewer 
sources of happiness to sustain them than 
I had. Why then should I dwell forever 
on the dark pages of life, regardless of 
the thousand blessings that awaited me. 
But my reasonings were of no avail; I 
dismissed the idea of writing — went and 
prepared breakfast for my little family ; 
after which I walked out and gave my- 
self up to reflection. In a short time, 
however, my attention was (ailed to the 
most delightful sounds, that I ever heard 
from the leathered choir; and though J 
instinctively listened to the notes, yet 
they were without their usual effect 
Thus for some time he continued to sing, 
till at length (as if sensible of the inutili- 
ty of his labors) he raised his notes to 
such a height, as insensibly drew from 
me the subject of my meditations. I lis- 
tened in silent gratitude to the little 
cherub who had thus befriended me. 



28 

Thanks to the sweet warbler I am again 
restored to a degree of tranquility, which 
will enable me to continue,, or rather re- 
sume my narrative. But as this seems 
to have no connection with my story, I 
will conclude it, after observing that I 
apprehend my last must have left you 
under very unfavorable impressions, re- 
specting Lucinda's leaving her father. 
Suspend your judgment ; my next shall 
undeceive you- 



29 



LETTER V. 

Lucinda lived with her father for three 
years after her mother's death, most faith- 
fully discharging the duties, not only of 
an affectionate child, but those of a cheer- 
ful and prudent economist. To tell you 
her motives for leaving him, would be at 
present out of place. I must therefore 
desire you to suppress your curiosity, till 
the thread of my story conducts you to 
them; and return to the evening of thai 
day, which brought her with her brother 
and sister to the mountain. Eliza, to all 
the glowing beauties of eighteen, happily 
united thai easy cheerfulness, at once so 
interesting to the beholder, and expres- 
sive of that internal happiness, which ani- 
mates the bosom of unsuspecting inno- 
cence and virtue ; and made her a play- 
ful companion for Julia, who was scarce 
turned off eleven. The strongly contras- 
ted manners of Lucinda, I very naturally 
ascribed to the disparity of years, and 



3& 

that experience which teaches us the fal- 
libility of all sublunary enjoyments. At 
a late hour we repaired to rest ; my bosom 
filled with a thousand inexplicable sensa- 
tions, it was long before I could close my 
eyes; overcome at length, I had just fal- 
len into a slumber, when I was called on 
to visit a sick neighbor. I threw on my 
clothes In haste, went into the apartment 
of my children, whom the noise had al- 
ready awoke, and told them I must leave 
them for a short time, but would return 
again as soon as possible. In the mean 
time, begged they would remember they 
were at a father's house, and would (with 
Julia's assistance) make themselves com- 
fortable with whatever it afforded. Pro- 
mising they would obey, I left them. I 
did not return till nearly noon the next 
day; I was received with apparent joy, 
and the situation I found every thing in, 
evinced the interest they felt in the wel- 
fare of the family. 

Next morning was the time appointed, 
for the departure of our two youngest ; 
they took their leave of us, to return 



31 

again to those tender friends,* who are 
entitled to receive from them, that filial 
reverence and affection, which is forever 
due to our parents and benefactors ; and 
who may with propriety expect from us, 
those grateful acknowledgments, which 
flow from the bosoms of sensibility. Un- 
happy children ! You left us unconscious 
of the misery that awaited our unfortu- 
nate family, and you, my son, in parti- 
cular. Little did you think you were 
taking a last leave of a much loved sis- 
ter, who ibr three years, had supplied to 
you the place of a tender mother; and 
whom, in the innocent gaiety of your 
heart, yon had rallied on her apparent 
melancholy. 

The first day of their absence was 
principally devoted to inquiry by the 
father, and absent answers, if I may so 

*Mr. William Marvin, of Malta, has brought up the daugh- 
ter from seven years of age (at which time she lost her mother) 
and has most tenderly discharged the sacred trust. 

Mr. Peter Betts of Troy, with unremitted zeal, has per- 
formed the same parental duties to the son, whom he took at 
eight years old, somewhat more than three years after the death 
of his mother, who was sister to Mrs. Marvin and Mrs. Betts; 
to whose tender care is due the most grateful thanks. 



32 

express it, on the part of the daughter, 
who was evidently in a state of latent 
anxiety ; the succeeding one, however, 
opened a new scene. I was busily em- 
ployed in some little arrangements in 
another room, when she came in and be- 
gan to assist me. After some time, she 
observed that her aunt Betts talked of 
coming up soon, but it was a matter of 
uncertainty. I asked if her husband 
was coming with her; she replied " no." 
" Surely she will not venture to come so 
far alone," said I ; when casting a look at 
Lucinda, I observed she blushed exceed- 
ingly ; while a tear stood ready to fall. 
I was that moment awakened to the pur- 
port of her communication, and thus ad- 
dressed her : " My child, I have made 
no inquiry of your sister, respecting your 
connection with Mr. Brown ; because I 
had rather be indebted to your confidence, 
than to be informed of it through any 
other channel : tell me, therefore, if Ave 
may not expect him with your aunt?" 
She readily answered, that on him, de- 
pended her coming; and further added 



33 

that she had little reason to expect such 
an event, as she had hourly expected him 
for many weeks; and as the sleighing 
was leaving us very fast, it being now 
about the middle of February, if he was 
not here in a few days, there was very 
little probability of her seeing him soon. 
Finding her heart deeply interested, 
and ignorant of any immediate cause of 
fear, I told her 1 saw no reason to doubt 
his coming, on account of his having de- 
layed the time longer than was expected ; 
as there were a thousand ways for people 
to be disappointed themselves; and as 
she had just observed, he was in Phila- 
delphia on business, when she last heard 
from him, it was more than probable that 
he might have been unexpectedly de- 
tained, and was doubtless more anxious 
on her account, than she imagined. I 
spoke from the dictates of my heart — 
therefore plead his cause with energy. 
All my rhetoric, however, I found was 
lost on her; and while each returning 
day brought to the rest of the family, 
some new expectation of his arrival, she 



34 

seemed lost in thought ; and as the little 
apartment where she lodged was adjoin- 
ing to ours, I never awoke at any season 
of the night whatever, but the sound 
of grief assailed my ears ; and yet so 
stupid was I, that almost a fortnight 
elapsed, before I suspected the fatal 
cause. Her desires at length, to com- 
municate her sorrows, exceeded all 
bounds. She made use of every ex- 
pression, which would be likely to pro- 
duce an inquiry into her situation ; but 
even after I suspected it, it was a mat- 
ter of so much delicacy, that I knew 
not how to request an explanation. You 
will perhaps, be anxious to know what 
first drew the veil of misapprehension 
before my sight. I will tell you. Her 
young brother when here, had affection- 
ately joked her on being subject to the 
hysterics; but I thought nothing of it at 
that time. One day however, when we 
were alone, Lucinda observed, that she 
would explain to me the meaning of her 
brother Smith. 

The day before her leaving her uncle's 



35 

at Troy, her mind had been uncommonly 
agitated by reflecting on the distressing 
state in which she was about to return to 
her father, after having left him for so 
many years. The idea was oppressive ; 
the recollection of the poor Prodigal, who 
returned naked and forlorn to the bosom 
of a father, pressed powerfully on her im- 
agination ; her faculties were for some 
moments suspended ; and she conceived 
the hand of death was upon her. It was 
observed by the family, who immediately 
lent her some assistance, and she recov- 
ered. Could I be blind any longer? 
And yet I did not dare to ask any ques- 
tions. Pardon my diffidence, my sister, 
and remember that I was a step-mother. 
That night, however, with all the tender- 
ness I was mistress of, I told her father my 
apprehensions. I found him by no means 
surprized, as he had for many days con- 
ceived the same, from her excessive sor- 
row — but while he was studious how to 
divulge it to me, whom he saw in a state 
of friendly delusion, that equanimity, 
which governs every action of his life, 



36 

only served to thicken the veil that blind- 
ed me. 

The measure we took to confirm or dis- 
pel our fears, shall be the subject of my 
next. 



37 



LETTER VI. 



I requested my husband to take an op- 
portunity of introducing the subject of our 
fears to our unhappy daughter, when they 
were alone, as perhaps it might be less 
painful for her to converse with him, than 
with me. Consequently the next day, 
when, osav;i> her constant custom, she 
retired to her room to indulge her grief, 
he followed her — begged she would no 
longer mourn in silence ; but rest assured 
that her parents tenderly participated her 
sufferings, and would do every thing in 
their power to alleviate them. 

She seemed greatly desirous, yet unable 
to speak on the subject. He saw her em- 
barrassment, and told her, that if it would 
be more agreeable to write a line which 
might inform us of her sorrows, he would 
for the present desist from any inquiry, 
that might give her pain to answer. He 
then left the room, where she continued 
alone for several hours, till our little 



38 

family were assembled to supper. She 
had with the rest obeyed the summons ; 
but her appetite was swallowed up in 
grief. In vain were all my entreaties ; 
she left the table, but only to return again 
to her apartment, where she spent the 
night in the most agonizing affliction. 

The following day when we were again 
alone, she began by saying, that her 
father, the preceding evening had very 
much distressed her by his tenderness. 
" Indeed," said she, " little as I merit such 
solicitude, it wounds my heart." She 
could say no more — my soul was wrought 
up to the height of sympathetic woe." 
"Lucinda," said I, " I can not any longer 
bear to see you thus distressed — I am 
your friend — I am your mamma — and 
what mother would forbear to enquire 
into the distresses of her child. Tell me 
then — it is a cruel question, and I trust 
your goodness will pardon my suggestions 
if groundless — tell me my child — is not 
your situation peculiarly wretched ? She 
burst into tears — I was answered ! 

What could I say, to comfort her or 



39 

myself. My eyes were at once opened to 
all the awful circumstances that succeed- 
ed. However sanguine my expectations 
might have been, with regard to her union 
with the object of her affections ; yet for 
several days past, I had been doubtful of 
some unforseen event. Our mingled 
tears, forbade any further explanation at 
that time. You will, perhaps, ask me, 
how I could ever have expected him, 
when I contemplated her sorrows ; and 
further observe, that you never saw our 
daughter. I will endeavor to show you 
the basis of my hopes ; and I trust, then, 
you will not think them ill-founded. Lu- 
cinda, without being a striking beauty, 
possessed all the elegance of form. I 
would proceed, but am incompetent to 
the task — suffice it then to say, that she 
added to the above, all those amiable and 
numberless virtues, which (though ab- 
sorbed in the gloom of wretchedness) en- 
deared her to all who saw her ; and while 
my tears flow at the tender recollection, 
I say to myself — unfortunate woman, 
while life is lent thee, the image of thy 



40 

lovely child, shall never be eradicated 
from thy bosom. Oh ! my dear, dear Lu- 
cinda ! Could thy sacred shade witness 
the tears I have shed, while relating the 
horrid deed which caused thy dissolution, 
you would comfort me by saying as you 
once did before — " Mamma, I am now 
happy ! " 

Farewell, my sister ; my heart is full, 
and I can write no more. 



41 



LETTER VII. 

Could I suppose, my dear sister, that 
there existed the man on earth, who 
knowing (as he must have done) he pos- 
sessed the highest place in the bosom of 
such sensibility, who could basely have 
deserted her, at the time appointed for 
their union to be solemnized. Thus far, I 
presume, I have justified those expecta- 
tions, the imbecility of which, however, 
we have most fatally proved. Being fully 
apprised of the extent of our misfortunes, 
we thought it most advisable to write to 
her uncle Whitney, with whom she had 
lived, and request him to see Mr. Brown 
(as there had for a long time subsisted a 
very friendly intercourse between them), 
and inform us immediately, by the mail, 
of what we had to hope. 

Mr. Manvill, therefore, wrote to her 
uncle and aunt — first informing them of 
the awful stroke of Providence, of which 
we believed them still ignorant (not 



42 

knowing at that time, there had any let- 
ter been forwarded to them from Troy, of 
which Lucinda afterwards informed us) — 
and then pathetically repeated the dying 
words of his departed wife ; that now 
rushed with redoubled poignancy on his 
heart. She had particularly mentioned 
Lucinda; recommending her to his im- 
mediate care. Here suffer me to remark, 
that it seems her prophetic soul, foresaw 
this dreadful calamity; or why should 
she have expressed a more particular 
solicitude for the fate of one child, 
when they must all have been equally 
dear to her. I will not, however, trouble 
you further with my comments ; but re- 
turn to the contents of the letter. He 
likewise added, that he had not supposed 
her character would have been more se- 
curely established, under the kind care of 
her affectionate aunts, with whom she 
alternately lived; and with whose pre- 
cepts and examples he should ever rest 
satisfied, he should not consented for her 
to have left him. His heart, torn by that 
anguish which could never be obliterated, 



43 

could not reproach him with want of pa- 
ternal love, or conjugal duties, in en- 
deavoring to fulfill the last and most ten- 
der request of his dear deceased wife ; by 
exerting every faculty of the soul, to 
guard (while with him) against the dupli- 
city of the human heart, and those com- 
plicated arts of seduction concomitant of 
it. Then, after making the above stated 
requests, respecting brother Whitney's in- 
terposition in the principal business which 
now occupied all our thoughts, he con- 
cluded. I added a short postscript, which 
as it only related to the interest I felt in 
the distresses of my family, it would be 
superfluous to transcribe it here. 

And now. dear sister, observe all our 
hopes resting on the returns, we were to 
receive ; and as it would at least, take up 
several weeks, it was necessary that every 
exertion should be tried to divert her mel- 
ancholy, which was by no means abated 
— though that extreme anguish of soul, 
had appeared to be somewhat softened, 
since she had communicated the fatal 
cause, and found herself not the less wel- 
come to our hearts, for her misfortunes. 



44 

For believe me, Nancy, though I would 
by no means wish to appear as an advo- 
cate for vice ; yet shall the truly humble 
and penitent offender, who with unremit- 
ted ardor, pleads for and receives mercy 
and pardon at the throne of Grace — shall 
they, let me ask, be denied forgiveness, of 
weak and erring mortals, because them- 
selves have been more abundantly favored 
of Providence ; and under its immediate 
direction, have escaped the wiles of delu- 
sion ? No, my sister, never shall I be 
made to believe, that God would appro- 
bate such rigid virtue, or that the bosom 
of sensibility can ever be barred against 
the all-powerful pleadings of humanity. 
Bowed down by the most humiliating re- 
flections, our poor repentant child had re- 
turned and sought an asylum under the 
paternal roof, from the scoffs of a censo- 
rious and misjudging world. And might 
we, with unprecedented cruelty, reject her 
petition. You my friend, and I trust 
every feeling heart, will readily give a 
negative answer, and thereby approve the 
conduct of 

Your truly affectionate, &c. 



45 



LETTEE VIII. 



You are extremely impatient to hear 
the sequel of my melancholy narrative — 
yet wish to know the most minute partic- 
ulars. Attend, and you shall hear how 
we spent our time during those tedious 
weeks of doubtful expectation ; the first 
of which were chiefly, on the part of Lu- 
cinda, devoted to writing to her sister, 
and to her uncle and aunt in Troy ; to in- 
form the latter of the proceedings, as they 
were the only friends whom she had made 
acquainted with her situation. She now 
gave her sister an account of her distress- 
ing circumstances, and pathetically en- 
treated her pardon; representing in the 
strongest colors her deep regret, at having 
brought, not only infamy and disgrace on 
her friends in general ; bat more imme- 
diate distress on her parents, whose em- 
barrassments were already sufficiently 
burdensome. Unhappy child ! that she 
should then be thus doubly oppressed by 



46 

an idea of the accumulating weight of 
sorrows she had brought on those she 
loved. Yes, my sister, I say on those she 
loved — for could you but have witnessed 
the filial affection with which she treated 
me— hear those tender expressions, by 
which I was mentioned in her letters to 
her aunts, you would justify the above re- 
mark. She had written several but deli- 
cacy forbade my asking to see them ; by 
the same power, perhaps, she was with- 
held from showing them. Thus was I, in 
some degree, a stranger to their contents ; 
however, when one day she had just 
finished writing to her aunt Whitney, she 
sat some time in a hesitating manner ; at 
length reaching it to me, " Mamma, 5 ' 
said she, " It is but just that you should 
see my letters ; as they contain nothing 
which my heart does not acknowledge. 3 ' 
I perused the writing; but could not 
speak. You know the heart of your sis- 
ter, that heart which with all its errors, 
she has often wished could be laid open 
to full view, and every sensation scanned. 
To be thus assured, of having been in- 



47 

strumental in any degree, of pouring the 
balm of comfort into the wounded bosom 
of my child, judge what must have been 
my delight. I wept from the excess of 
joy that Heaven had thus reciprocated our 
affection for each other. 

" Lucinda," said I one day when we 
were sitting alone, "I wish you could 
feel a freedom, to tell me the commence- 
ment, and progressive circumstances, at- 
tending your connexion with Mr. Brown. 
I wish at least, to find some trival excuse 
for his conduct. Perhaps you may have 
triumphed over his attachment at first ; 
and like the churlish little school boy, he 
first means to triumph in his turn for a 
season, and then be friends. However, 
should that be the case, I shall not much 
approve his disposition. For believe me, 
though I should sincerely blame the 
cause, I should heartily detest the effect." 
She then mildly entered into a relation of 
the motives, by which she had been 
governed for many years, even from the 
death of her dear mother. But as our 
conversations were frequently interrupted, 



48 

I can not give it to you in such detached 
parts ; and will therefore endeavor so to 
connect the broken threads of her history, 
as to give you as clear an idea of the 
truth, as can be drawn from memory, 
when the impression it has made on the 
heart, is indelible. And as I know it will 
be quite agreeable to you, I will throw if 
into the form of a letter, and enclose it. 



49 



LETTER IX. 

LUCINDA TO HER MOTHER. 

Since Heaven has destined to me a 
friend, where cruel prejudice taught me 
never to hope far our. 1 will endeavor, as 

far as I am able, to relate every circum- 
stance, which can have a tendency to- 
wards assisting her judgment, respecting 
my past conduct; which, however guilty 
1 may have !>■ in the conclusion, 
permit me to say, I never lest sight of 
those principles of virtue — the gifts of 
Heaven, and fruitless cultivation of my 
dear parents. Jn my mother's Last sick- 
ness, my uncle and Aunt Marvin, from 
motives of tenderness, knowing my fa- 
ther's circumstances, whit h were by no 
means eligible, sent for his two youngest 
children (excepting the babe) to keep 
till she could be restored, if consistent 
with the will of Providence. However, 
it was otherwise determined. After lan- 
guishing for five weeks, in the most 
5 



50 

excruciating distress, her soul took its 
flight to those regions of bliss, where I 
have long since, most ardently wished 
to follow her. My unhappy father was 
left with seven children, of whom I was 
the eldest, then about seventeen years 
of age; the youngest, a daughter of two. 
After the last duties were paid to the 
remains of my dear mother, my uncle 
sent home my little brother, but desired 
that they might keep my sister, as they 
had no daughter ; and observed, they 
would use her as their own. My father, 
therefore, consented. 

About a year after this, having been 
engaged in some domestic duties, I had 
just taken a kettle of boiling water from 
over the fire, when turning to get some- 
thing to put over it, my dear little sister. 
who had been asleep, awoke at that 
critical moment ; got off the bed, and 
attempting to run to her daddy, who sat 
at the opposite side of the room, by some 
unhappy step, blundered and fell, alas ! 
into the boiling kettle ! Oh ! the distiv 
of that moment ! It will never be effaced 



51 

from my memory. We caught her out 
immediately; but indeed, too late. She 
lived only three days. From the time 
of that unfortunate event, I began to 
think it would be best for the family 
to break up; as my father was mostly 
employed in a school, and had nothing 
wherewith to employ my brothers to any 
advantage, eithet to himself of them, 
And now T humbly hope, they will not 
:e it unkind, should they ever know- 
that my anxiety for my father, for whom 
it was hard to support so large a family, 
from the mere productions of his own 
labor, made me wish to leave him. think- 
ing perhaps, when I . my broth 
might be put to some mechanical branch j 
ami thus become useful and valuable 
members of society* 

I contemplated this for two years, 

when at la>t. I requested my father's per* 
mission to leave him. U** at Length, not 
only consented, hut even permitted me 

to take as mueh of his hou>ehold furniture 

;i- I >aw lit ; ;i^ therefore, no one would 

left, who could take the necessary care 



52 

of it. I hope I am excusable for having 
taken the principal part ; particularly of 
such things as were most likely to be in- 
jured by neglect. However, I trust I may 
so far justify myself, as to assure you with 
truth, that I have ever cherished this 
principle, that whatever might be the 
event of my leaving him, he should never 
suffer, while it was in my power to relieve 
him. But, alas ! how little did I think, 
when I was fondly anticipating the su- 
preme delight of discharging the duties 
of filial affection, should it ever become 
necessary for me to support my parent ; 
that in the course of a few years, I should 
again return to him, in a far more deplor- 
able state, than that of infancy. Oh ! my 
beloved father; what a complication of 
sorrows have I brought on your aged 
heart ! And you, my dear mamma, for 
your sakes, and the rest of my friend-. 
my heart bleeds ; was there none but me 
to suffer, I could bear it with more forti- 
tude ! But I must refrain from such 
thoughts, if possible ; and confine myself 
to the recollection of events long pa^ 



53 

Indeed, I can not justly tell how long ; for 
I hardly know when first my acquaintance 
with Mr. Brown commenced. Only this 
I rememher. that I had often seen him 
before he made any professions of love; 
or even solicited permission to visit me. 
But when lie did, (hough I had no desire 
of entertaining him as a lover ; yet 1 hope 
and trust, I was very tar from treating him 
with disrespect. I alternately resided 
with my relations, hut mostly with my 
ancle Whitney, in Charlton. 1 frequent- 
ly fell in company with him, when he 

would he Mire to nvat me with a di^tin- 
guished attention; hut wholly onacquaint- 

lii the science Of ll I had never 

kept any company, I suspected not his par- 
tiality, till 1 was repeatedly rallied on it 

by Others; particularly a relation of his, 
whom in the confidence of friendship, he 

had told, that lie should never have taken 
up his residence, where lie then was, had 
it not have been lor the opportunities 
which he flattered himself might oiler, of 
evincing his attachment to me. This 
communication, in particular, the sincer- 



54 

ity of which I had no reason to doubt, 
aided by the most tender and undeviating 
attentions from him, taught me at last to 
look into my own heart ; and finding I 
had that esteem for him, which I felt for 
no other of his sex, I accepted his love ; 
and began to receive his visits, in the year 
1802. From that moment, I even denied 
myself the common privileges of my sex. 
My whole happiness was centered in him. 
I had not as yet, however, engaged to be 
his wife, although I had no other motive 
in keeping his company ; but was unwill- 
ing to be too precipitate in a matter, on 
which the future happiness of my life de- 
pended. 

My uncle had disposed of his property 
in Charlton, and made a purchase of lands 
at Marcellus ; whither I had promised to 
attend the family, previous to my connec- 
tion with Mr. Brown. The time arrived 
for their departure, in the spring of 1803. 
It is true, he dissuaded me from going; 
but did not propose an immediate union ; 
which had he done, I should then have 
accepted. But to stay, and not only dis- 



55 

oblige my good aunt (to whom I was un- 
der many obligations) but expose myself 
to the ridicule of the world, for my fond- 
ness for one, who might change his senti- 
ments, and abandon me, indeed I could 
not bear it. Therefore, after making you 
a very short visit (in which time, as I 
then was unacquainted with my mamma, 
I could neither tell he* my thoughts, nor 
oak her ad vice, which, alaai might have 
saved dm and herself those heart rending 

moments, which now Mirroiind us) I set 
oil lor the western country. Mr. IJrown, 

however, proposed his coining nut the 

follow i 1 1 u iiiiiiiiiin; and pressed me t<> hind 
mv>eli' by BOme promise, hut I feared 
the caprice of the human heart. 1 there- 
fore, perhaps I was wrong, recommended 
as the most consistent with propriety, to 
be hound hy no other ties, than the rights 
of honor; which, while v itinuedto 

esteem each other, OUT hearts would na- 
turally suggest. He appeared satisfied 
witli my remark, and after assuring me, 
that I might depend on his coming, took 

his leave. Here, for the present, sn! 1 
me to leave my narrative 



56 



LETTER X. 

MRS. MANVILLE TO HIS SISTER. 

IN CONTINUATION. 

There having been an interval of some 
time, before I found an opportunity of 
conversing further with Lucinda, on the 
subject which employed all our thoughts ; 
and having for some time been oppressed 
with an idea, that even now to rclat e chills 
my heart, I sought an interview of a few 
moments only (when the rest of t lie fami- 
ly were in bed) that I might be relieved 
from a state of awful apprehension. But 
how was I to ask an explanation, which 
was become so essentially necessary to 
my peace of mind ? Summoning, how- 
ever, all the fortitude in my power, I said 
w My child, from every circumstance I 
can collect, either from your principles, 
your manners, or those frequent renin r' 
obscured in darkness, which I have heard 
you make, I have every reason to bc&ei 



that however great your affection might 
have been for your betrayer, that you did 
not fall by the common arts of seduction. 
Relieve my mind, and if le, acquit 

him of the horrid charge! She answer- 
ed me not; I looked, and beheld the cuw- 
lliet of li il ! I had unexpectedly 

awakened her mind to the most ctistn 
ing recoiled was unable to 

speak. The crimson glow on ber ch< 
and conclusive emotion of her bosom, 
convinced me of o r ; and desirous 

of relieving ber, I i ad< d to turn my 

enquiry into a Less painful channel, and 
affected no1 to notice ber situation. Bui 
unskilled in the sci< ace of dissimulation, 
i a^> unsuccessful ; and a- w e were both 
willing to he relieved from a painful re- 
straint, we took 1- i each other for 
the night, repaired to our beds; but not to 
rest. For occupied, as] must have been, 
by the mere suggestions of a cruelty, 
which had apparently been practiced, 
how could I sleep ? And much teas rea- 
son had T to hope tor the oor 
Lucinda, from whose wounded heart I 



58 

had torn the bandages, and saw it bleed- 
ing afresh ! 

Suffer me here, my sister, to digress a 
little from my subject ; and offer a few 
comments on the attributes of love. The 
love I would first describe, has true reli- 
gion and morality for its basis, unaffect- 
ed virtue for its object, truth and honor 
for its supporting pillar, stability and ten- 
der solicitude for its everlasting crown. 
I will now endeavor to point out those of 
its anti-type ; and then by way of refer- 
ence, discriminate the different traits, by 
which they may be understood. That 
love, then, which by the young and inex- 
perienced, and indeed too often by those 
of a more advanced age, has been often 
received as the genuine effusions of purity 
itself, may be justly said to have for its 
consistent parts atheism, immorality, du- 
plicity and pride. It is likewise covered 
with the magnetic mantle of flattery ; and 
thus it ventures forth in search of prey. 
As the former may be justly esteemed a 
compound of all the mental virtues, so 
the latter may, with equal propriety be 



59 

termed the offspring of impiety, licen- 
tiousness and guilt. The capacious soul, 
which comprehends and is governed by 
the first, would sooner sacrifice his own 
temporal existence, than give pain, much 
less assassinate the object of it. It will 
be ever studious to communicate that 
happiness; which it longs to find recipro- 
cated, and without which, to a feeling 
heart, life is but a painful void. Far dif- 
ferent, the votaries of voluptuousness. 
Studious of nothing but the gratification 
of their own inordinate passions, theypu— 
sue with unremitted zeal, their intended 
victim ; till the innocent and unthinking 
fair one, who has long been the dupe of 
mere sounds, unsuspicious of their dupli- 
city, submits her heart, happiness and 
what is still more painful too add, her 
honor, to the shrine of that love, with 
which she believes herself revered ; and 
thus becomes the wretched sacrifice of 
ungovernable lust. 

Oh ! my sister, though thousands have 
fallen, many of whom now sleep in dust, 
and neither precept nor example, can be 



60 

of any further use to them; yet we ought 
not, to withhold the assisting hand, from 
the dear inexperienced survivors. And 
I humbly believe it to be the indispensa- 
ble duty of every person, whether parents, 
preceptors, or those who only stand in 
the general relationship of the world, to 
point out, according to the best of their 
abilities, those hidden rocks on which 
the sons and daughters of virtue may be 
lost. But as it is more particularly our 
province to guide and direct those tender 
plants of our own sex, how ardently I 
could wish, that the dispensations of Pro- 
vidence in my own family, together with 
what I have here written, might prove 
an awful warning to all the youthful and 
innocent daughters of Adam. To each 
of whom I would further recommend, 
not merely a strict adherence to the prin- 
ciples of virtue ; but a rigid watchfulness 
of the false meteors, whose delusive pow- 
ers might lead them imperceptibly from 
the paths of rectitude. Would each one 
of our sex, my Nancy, instead of contem- 
plating in their mirrors, real or imaginary 



61 

beauties, devote a small proportion of the 
inestimable moments of time, to the gen- 
eral study of physiognomy, we should 
not, I presume, so often see the victims 
of perjury, sinking to their untimely 
graves. Little as the study of this sci- 
ence is recommended to the fair sex, yet 
believe me, I conceive it to be of the 
greatest importance. As those who have 
ever made any tolerable proficiency in 
the art, will seldom fail to discriminate, 
betwixt the electric glow of voluptuous- 
ness, and the milder radiance of celestial 
love, which beams on the eyes of sacred 
affection. There is something in the for- 
mer, which can only be understood by a 
minute investigation ; and when once 
discovered, will most assuredly cause the 
bosom of innocence to shrink from its 
advances — while the magnetic power of 
the latter, which holds out to them the 
cup of connubial bliss, unadulterated by 
any impious anticipations, will imper- 
ceptibly inspire that esteem, which (being 
founded on real merit) will soon ripen into 
love ; and when sanctioned by the laws 
6 



62 

of heaven and earth, and crowned by the 
conscious rectitude of their own hearts, 
they may reasonably hope for a blessing 
in their union. And even should Provi- 
dence, for wise purposes, disappoint their 
endeavors, the demon discord will find 
little room in their hearts to erect his 
throne. While on the other hand, should 
the libertine from mere necessity, unite 
himself with one whom his vices had 
sullied, what might be expected from 
such a connexion? When I reflect on 
this, my sister, I am happy; even while 
I write and bedew the memory of our 
child with tears, that she has paid the 
debt of nature, and now enjoys the re- 
ward of unaffected penitence. 

When I first strayed from my subj< 
I did not intend to have detained you 
long; the motive however, I hope will be 
my apology. Pardon me, therefore, and 
read the inclosed. 



63 



LETTER XI. 

LUCTXDA TO HER MOTHER. 

Dear Mamma: 

I will continue my narrative, though J 
am rare there ifl nothing it contains, thai 
can afford cither consolation or hope. 
Yet the power of sympathy i^ great ; and 
I ma doubly bound not to deceive her 
whom I address. 

After our arrival at Marcellus, notwith- 
standing the affectionate treatment of my 
ancle's family, I eedingly unhap- 

py ; there was a strange void in my heart. 

I then for the first time in my life, fell all 
the lender emotion- of love. At length 
autUSUI arrived, and my hopes v NOS- 

pleted. Mr. Brown not merely came lor 
a visit, hnt made a purchase of a piece oi 
land adjoining my uncle's. Yet as he 
was about commencing the mercantile 
business in the town oi' Scipio, about thir- 
ty miles from thence ; and that, together 



64 

with making some little establishments 
on his land, would necessarily take up 
much of his time ; and I being willing 
to make what additions I could to my 
own accommodations, our nuptials, for 
the above reasons, were postponed till 
the next fall, notwithstanding our vo\ 
of eternal fidelity were interchanged. 
When business admitted, he constantly 
made it his home, at our house, win 
he was treated with the utmost polite- 
ness by the whole family. The yeai at 
length had elapsed, and I was prepared 
for the fulfillment of my vows. But shall 
I tell you on what pretence he evaded 
his ? Oh ! that some kind friend had 
stepped between me and ruin! Ignorant 
and unacquainted with deceit, little did 
I think, cruel as it was, that the man 
who could wish to debase the propov 
object of his choice and affection, must 
be totally destitute of every sentiment of 
honor or tenderness. Yet, alas, such 
has been the painful conclusion. Blind- 
ed by the power of my own love, I sim- 
ply attributed it to his excessive fond 



i 



65 

ftess, which absorbed every rational idea. 
Instead, then fore, of discarding, as 1 
j hi to have done, I continued with un- 
abated affection to receive him as befort 
for many months; constantly endeavor- 
ing, and vainly hoping, to remove from 
his mind, that prejudice by which he had 
hitherto been governed; and convic 
him. thai the greatest proof I could J 
sihly give of thai tenderness which en- 
grossed my whole tin" was inviola- 
bly to pi <.wn honor, till it 
should be mon inseparably connected 

with his. Ihit ( >h ! my mamma ; my 
kind friend! Your sospicions have not 
been groundlet Unbounded as was 
that passion, which even death can only 
refine, your wretched child was neither 
the victim of to credulity ; hut the 

more cruel practice of premeditated guilt. 
Oh ! do ; do not tell mv father. 



In continuation, after several days. 

Pardon me, I can not be more explicit. 
Indeed you already despise him. But 
what was now to be done 7 Ala- ! my 



66 

honor gone ; and with it, every thing that 
was dear or valuable in life ; and nothing 
left me, but that fatal love, which had 
unsuspectingly thrown me into his pow- 
er : and which, I now blush to acknow- 
ledge, has never known any diminution. 
And believe me, when I assure you, that 
his reiterated vows to repair my wrong 
and the imprecations called upon himself, 
should he ever forsake me, lulled me in- 
to a kind of gloomy security. Thus did 
I live for several months in those guilty 
scenes, which were degrading to my 
friends, repugnant to my soul, and offen- 
sive to my God ! And though in the 
course of that time, he had twice desired 
me to be prepared for the solemnization 
of our union; yet when the appointed 
time had arrived, he repeatedly waived 
the ceremony on some trivial pretence of 
business. Yet so lost and infatuated was 
I, as still to think he loved with unabated 
ardor. Often did he wish with apparent 
tenderness and concern, that he might be 
blessed with that proof of aftection. which 
will soon publish my disgrace to the world. 



67 

Previous to my dishonor, I had been 
very desirous of coming- home on a visit : 
but had no thoughts of coming alone and 
unprotected. Last fall, however, there 
was a young lady with whom I had some 
acquaintance, thai was going to return to 
her relatives in same of the Eastern 
States in company with a friend, who 
was then gone on business further into 
the country, and was to call for her on 
his return. As their route led then 
through Albany, she v. ious I 

should come with her as Far as there •. 
where, by the assistance of her friends, I 
conlil obtain a psa in the stage to 

Troy, at any hour of the day. My ancle 
ami aunt knowing how great my desires 
had been for coming; and totally unsus- 
picious of any cause which might h 
changed my sentiments, arged my ac- 
cepting the invitation. I could no1 tell 
them the reason why I wished not to 
leave Marcellus ; but waited an opportu- 
nity to uniform Mr. Brown, when I told 
him of the oiler. Tie seemed much to 
approve my coming. Filled with the 



68 

most distressing ideas, I humbly request- 
ed him to secure my happiness, before I 
left him. He again waived it, as being 
very inconvenient for him at that time ; 
as he was making out a drove of cattle 
for the market. But observed, as I 
wished of course to come down after fur- 
niture, which was at my uncle's in Troy, 
it would be best for me to come thou: 
and he would make every possible dis- 
patch in his business, and meet me bei 
where he chose the ceremony should be 
performed, and then we would return 
back in the stage. With a trembling 
heart I acquiesced ; we then parted. His 
business detained him some time from 
home ; I can not recollect how I but 

before he returned, there was word sent 
from my young friend, that the carriage 
had arrived, and that Ave must be ready 
to set off early the next morning. 

Judge, if possible, what must have 1 
my sensations ! I had given my word to 
attend her. What must be done ! I inn 
not merely dishonored in the sight of Hi m 
ven and my own eyes; but began to be 



60 

under more distressing apprehensions, for 
fatal con>e<[u<aices. I would have 

given worlds, had I po d them, for 

minute to hi u the object of all 

then, jiiv feelin 

whrii I heard tin' joyful sound, that he 

wa> Fur thai moment, my grief 

suh>id< d ; l)iit ala- I tin iul calm v. 

sneeeedad bj I was < u- 

velopcd in the billows pf despair! — un- 
abftt eitshei in extx* imparl 

my n win i « onse! 1 

much longed. It was ing \\ Inn he 

arrived; I impatiently waited for an in- 
ter! iew : when after sitting some time 
conversing in with the 

family, h< . and to my infinite Bar- 

prise ami tired to bed with one 

ofiny ancle'c termined 

ave inn no opportunity t< [, not- 

withstanding he Mil preparations w 
making, for my departure in the raorni 
At this event, I was almost frantic. Often 
did I say to m\ ->rli— <>h! tny dear aunt, 

dd you hut know the cruel tortures that 
oppn um my soul, you would not only pity, 



70 

but soothe my sorrows by your kind ad- 
vice. But, alas ! you know them not. 
Your own heart, formed of purity itself, 
can never suspect your unfortunate niece 
has lived in infamy. As she was up with 
me till very late, on account of my journey, 
I made many efforts to open my whole 
heart to her ; crave her pardon for the dis- 
grace I had brought, not only on herself, 
but all my family — and humbly solicit her 
counsel respecting my present conduct. 
For that purpose, I made several remarks, 
as I had often done before, which I thought 
could not fail of leading her to a suspicion 
of our fatal connection ; and consequently 
to those inquiries I so ardently wished her 
to make ; but all my endeavors were 1< 
Dear mamma, how could she be so blind- 
ed by a mistaken confidence in the merits 
of her wretched niece. After many un- 
successful attempts to be understood, I 
gave over the task, and silently submitted 
to my fate. 

Early the next morning, the carriage 
came ; I was handed into it in all the 
horrors of despair ! Mr. Brown, who had 



71 

Ltiously avoided being alone with me, 
now add] me in j of the 

family, and desired I would tell my 
friends, he should be down in January. 
In I Little i us 

you must naturally sup] ose J had to I « - 
lie ve him; yet the fond hope supported 
me through the journey, \\ hich lasted four 
da] * When \\ i d in Albany , the 

just ready b Troj , 

1 tli \r of my ii i' ndsj who 

had treat d ni< i wi1 1 

and ptolii :hed T i at 

1 had. howi difficulty 

in tracing out in\ ! . To b hear! 

more 1 1 1 \ [a] a circum- 

nce mighl h. ic< d ; but 

alas ! I small ointments 

app [uential. J km w thai my 

uncle r,« tts lived a little ou1 of the toi 
and had tin ; clud( d to hai i \x i n 

sai down at the door of his brother 3 
I had been informed resided there, till I 
could send him word of toy arrival Bui 
through a mistake, occasioned by a simi- 
larity of names, J carried past his 



72 

house, and set down among all strangers \ 
who, far from being able to direct me 
back, did not even know that any of that 
name lived in the town. I was very much 
distressed, and knew not which way to 
direct my steps. The driver, who ap- 
peared to be a very humane person, pity- 
ing my situation, recommended me to a 
family of his acquaintance, who kept a 
public house a little distance out, and 
were people of respectability ; whither he 
would, if I pleased, conduct me. He 
further added, that I might there perhaps, 
make some inquiry more to my satisfac- 
tion ; and if I wished to return again in 
the morning, he would with pleasure con- 
duct me, as he should then drive back. 
What should I do ? Indeed I could but 
be with strangers ; and those with whom 
I was then with, could give me no ac- 
count of my friends ; it was possible the 
others might; I therefore accepted his 
offer. His remarks were justified. I found 
them an amiable family; and being in- 
formed of my embarrassment, treated me 
as an own child. How grateful to my 



73 

soul, was this kindness ! In the evening, 
there came in a gentleman, of whom 
the landlord inquired, if he knew a Mr. 
Betts, who kept a public house in Troy ; 
observing, likewise, there was a young 
woman there, who was interested in 
knowing. He replied, that he knew him 
very well, and was himself going there 
that night ; if the young lady wished to 
go there, and would put herself under his 
protection, he would conduct her with 
safety. I thanked him for his friendly 
offer; but could by no means have ac- 
cepted it, and indeed, my generous friends 
with whom I was, were too kind and con- 
siderate, to recommend to me so rash a 
step. I felt, however, much relieved ; and 
waited with some little impatience, the 
returning of the stage next morning; 
when I took leave of the hospitable 
family,* who would accept nothing but 
thanks for my entertainment. My heart 
and eyes, overflowed with the weight of 
my gratitude ; not merely to those, but to 

* Whose name, if I mistake not, was Mason. 
7 



74 
the generous man,* who conducted me to 
them; and who now sat me down at Mr. 
Betts's door, where I had been but a few 
moments, before, to my agreeable sur- 
prise, my uncle and aunt drove up. 

Not to dwell on particulars, I returned 
home with them that day ; where I in- 
formed them of what Mr. Brown had re- 
quested, without adding any of my fears 
that it would not be fulfilled. From thence 
you will perhaps recollect I wrote, in- 
forming you of my desires and intentions 
of returning home ; but as no opportunity 
offered, I continued with them a few 
weeks ; when one of my uncle Whitney's 
sons, who had left Marcellus (a few days 
after I did) in company with Mr. Brown 
for Philadelphia, arrived at my uncle 
Betts's ; and informed us, that having been 
to Norwalk on a short visit to his friends, 
was now on his return home, but accord- 
ing to appointment^ was to wait in Troy 
for his friend, whom he had left in Phila- 
delphia ; and from whom he brought me 

* Whose name, lam sorry to say, has been forgotten; but 
whose friendship, will be remembered while life lasts me. 



75 

this verbal message, " Tell Lucinda, that 
I shall be there sooner than I expected." 
This intelligence, revived my drooping 
spirits. My cousin, however, after wait- 
ing for him some time, and going to Al- 
bany twice in hopes of meeting him 
there, returned to the westward alone. 
Though love suggested a thousand causes 
of delay, yet my hopes began gradually 
to forsake me. And as my friends had 
very little business in which I could em- 
ploy myself with any advantage to them ; 
and conscious that 1 OUghl not to depend 
wholly on their bounty, while it was in 

my power to support myself, 1 consented 

to go into the service of a very worthy 

family in Troy, by the name of Warren, 
who wanted my assistance ; there to stay, 
till I had an opportunity of coining to my 

father; or -one- more happy event should 
take place* Six weeks. I continued with 
this truly amiable family, laboring under 
the horrors of disappointment. My 
ngth failed me through continual 
weeping, and I found I should not much 
longer be able to provide myself a home. 



76 

I repeatedly wrote to my false friend, but 
received no return ; till at length, to save 
my family from dishonor, I even contem- 
plated the impious purpose of suicide ! 
But thanks to my God ! those principles 
of religion which had been early implant- 
ed in my breast by the best of parents, 
forbade the awful deed. I then thought 
I would go to my uncle's, disclose to them 
all my sufferings, and beg their assistance. 
But when I returned, the apparent plea- 
sure of seeing me defeated every purpose 
of my heart ; and I again went back to 
town, without introducing a subject, of 
which it was evident they had not the 
least suspicion, notwithstanding they had 
frequently remarked the gloom that over- 
spread my countenance. When I took 
leave of them, most fervently did I pray 
that the Supreme disposer of events, who 
alone knew my grief and penitence, would 
in mercy take me to his bosom, wipe away 
my tears, and save my dear friends from 
that dreadful and unexpected stroke, 
which otherwise awaited them. 

The Sunday following, my aunt came 



77 

to church ; and calling to see me, the dis- 
tressing idea of my situation for the first 
moment, rushed on her heart. She de- 
sired to speak with me alone. But what 
language can paint her sorrows, when she 
found her conjectures real ! After some 
time spent in silent contemplation, she at 
length proposed that I should be imme- 
diately brought home; as 1 should not 
only be with fnVmK but also much less 
exposed to company in tikis retired place, 
than I could he at their house. The pro- 
posal was pleasing to me ; not merely be- 
cause company an r as painful, for I had an 
ardent desire to die at my fathers. She 
then left me. begging me to be comforted ; 
for they would do every thing in their 
power to assist me. A few days after, she 
came again with her huaband; they took 
me home with them ; my uncle wrote 
immediately to the westward; and the 
next day, my brother was directed to pre- 
pare for a visit to his parents, and bring 
me with him. We were likewise to stop 
at my uncle Marvin's, stay over night, 
and take my sister with us. They were 



78 

both, however, ignorant of the fatal cause 
of our coming, and were happy in the 
prospect. You know the rest. 

But I hope my dear mamma will be- 
lieve me, when I assure her, that however 
great the distress which she has witnessed 
may have been, it has in a manner lost its 
poignacy in her kind sympathy and con- 
soling tenderness. Nor can I ever be suf- 
ficiently grateful to Heaven, for having 
given such a friend, to soothe the passage 
to death, for the wretched 

LUCINDA. 



79 



LETTER XII. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
IN C [OS. 

Dear Nancy, 

The conclusion of our child's narrative, 
lias quite overcome me, Indeed, I do not 

know but m\ d it quite 

il legible; for a> I had no command over 
my feelings, while committing it to writ- 
ing, they have flowed almost incessantly 
through the whole course of it ; and the 
tribute which was due to her grateful soul, 
forbade me to omit any eireuiustai: 

which mighl Lave saved me a single 
pang; Wail a few hours ; I will endeavor 
to compose myself, and then continue the 
Bubjeet 

The human heart is inexplicable. I 
could sometimes pass whole days without 
shedding a single tear — at others, I wept 
from morning till night. Each post-day 
brought disappointment with it ; till worn 
out with expectation, we dispatched one 



80 

of our sons to Troy, to see if there had 
been any return to those letters which had 
been sent from thence, either from Lu- 
cinda or Mr. Betts. On the third day, he 
returned, bringing a line from Mr. Betts, 
with one inclosed from Mr. Whitney, 
which he had just received. The con- 
tents of the latter (to which the former 
chiefly referred) were these ; that the au- 
thor, agreeably to the request contained 
in Mr. Betts' s letter, had seen Mr. Brown ; 
delivered him the inclosed from Lucinda, 
and talked with him in very plain terms. 
His answers, far from being satisfactory, 
were indeed very insulting. He told Mr. 
Whitney, that after leaving Philadelphia, 
he had traveled almost over the Southern 
States ; that on his return to Marcellus, he 
had been in Albany, and Charlton, where 
he staid a week. But as he heard Lu- 
cinda was at Troy, he did not choose to 
go there, for she had promised to meet 
him there, at Mr.W's house; with many 
other ridiculous remarks, equally incon- 
sistent with truth or manhood. It was 
very surprising, that he should presume 



81. 

to tell her uncle that she had promised to 
meet him there, when he must have been 
conscious of his presence, when he ad- 
dressed her in the carriage.* Through 
the whole course of this conversation, his 
observations were so exceedingly void of 
common sense, or even of decency itself, 
that they neither ought to be repeated or 
remembered. 

But the effect of this cruel letter on the 
heart of our child, was beyond descrip- 
tion. The fond hope which (notwith- 
standing all her distress) she sometimes 
cherished, that some unavoidable acci- 
dent had detained him, was now no longer 
her support. For myself, you know me, 
my sister ; and therefore will not be sur- 
prised to hear that my soul was wrought 
up to the height of indignation. Indeed, 
from what I had been informed of before, 
there was nothing lacking in him but in- 
sult, to form the chief of Milton's fell 
band. 

The next day, our friends in general 

* See Letter XI. 



82 

having been apprised of our misfortunes, 

I received a billet from brother M , 

intreating me in the most feeling terms, 
to write to Mr. Brown in behalf of our 
daughter ; as it might possibly have a bet- 
ter effect than for Lucinda' s father to 
write ; fearing he was too much exasper- 
ated. But indeed, our brother was mis- 
taken. However distressed Mr. Manvill 
might have been, I was the one who was 
distracted with resentment. I wrote back 
to my brother, requesting that he would 
never more wish me " to flatter a wretch 
whom my soul despised; and who never 
merited an alliance with the murdered 
Lucinda." A few days after, we received 
a letter from the westward in answer to 
ours, which had been sent by the mail 
six weeks before. But as it merely con- 
tained (with respect to Mr. Brown) what 
has been before written, with the addi- 
tion only of a few more insulting remarks, 
I shall pass them over, as you will have 
an opportunity to judge of them here- 
after, and proceed to the next step. 

Lucinda had a great desire that her 



83 

father would go to him, and see what ef- 
fect that would have ; but the situation of 
our affairs were such, that it would not 
possibly admit of it. One of her brothers, 
therefore, offered to go, and thought it 
most advisable to take such measures as 
would bring him, should he prove refrac- 
tory. But the tenderness of her heart re- 
volted at the idea. She rould not consent 
that he should be distressed ; and begged 
her brother to treat him with respect. 
" Her daddy would write, she would 
write herself; and if I would add my en- 
treat ies to theirs, she still hoped that he 
would listen to the calls of humanity." 
Oh! any sister — could I be deaf to the 
energetic pleadings of her tears ? No, 
indeed. I therefore subdued, or rather 
stifled my detestation ( for what fitter 
name shall I give those sensations I felt 
towards him) and promised her I would 
do everything in my power to make her 
happy. I performed the task with much 
more ease than I expected; for Provi- 
dence kindly compassionating the vio- 
lence I must have done to my feelings, 



84 

absorbed every other sensation in that of 
pity to my child. And as I know you 
will be desirous of knowing the contents 
of what was written, I will here inclose 
the rough draught of her father's and 
mine, with a few extracts from her's. 



85 



LETTER XIII. 

froxw mr. manvill to mr. brown. 

Sir, 

I have taken up my pen, with a view 
of reciting a few realities and of making 
some remarks on the powers and facul- 
ties, with which rational beings are in- 
vested by the great Author of nature : 
and the propensities to which we find 
ourselves liable, which I flatter myself 
might by some, be esteemed deserving of 
attention. A knowledge of the world, I 
allow to be useful ; but we can not act 
with propriety, without the knowledge of 
ourselves. Let us take a candid and in- 
trinsic view, the better to discover 
whether we apply our gifts agreeably to 
the will of the great Giver. This dis- 
covery must be made by the light of the 
mind, which every rational creature pos- 
sesses in a greater or less degree. For 
that light is reason; and everything 
which is not consistent with it, is irration- 
8 



86 

al ; but every action which is consistent 
with the light of reason is approbated by 
the laws human and divine; they bear 
the seal of conscious rectitude, and de- 
serve laurels of honor according as the 
action proves less or more useful. True 
honor is not derived from wealth; it is 
not derived from learning nor external 
beauty ; but it is derived from the beauty 
of the mind, that noble ornament called 
virtue. It may be asked whether those 
who possess the greatest gifts of reason, 
are always the most virtuous. I answer, 
No. Such, as often as any, are guilty 
of a misapplication of their talents — 
they neglect to form a proper system 
of self government ; suffer the powers 
of the mind to be led by inordinate 
desires, to the pursuit of objects beyond 
the encircled rays of their own reason ; 
and often spend their days in infamy. 
Their faculties become so absorbed 
in darkness, that they have no heart to 
prove their good qualities, and sometimes, 
I suppose, they are almost persuaded 
themselves that they have none. 



87 

Who then are praiseworthy, or who 
are truly honorable? I answer, those 
who hold their will in such subjection, 
that it never leads them beyond the limits 
of their own comprehension. Such, 
search for propriety; they consult reason, 
and are not deceived ; they have a true 
sense of honor, and are never led by 
undue means to the deception of raising a 
character on the ruin of others ; all the 
powers of the mind are well organized, and 
in cordant subordination to the laws of 
humanity; they feel a sympathy in the dis- 
tress of others, and are excited to alleviate 
their griefs. These are the ways of wis- 
dom ; which are said to be the ways of 
pleasantness, and all her paths peace. 
Have you, my friend — let me call you so, 
because I feel a disposition to be yours — 
have you, I ask, kept an eye on these 
paths, in your correspondence with Lu- 
cinda; or are you rambling in the dark 
in search of honor and happiness, where 
your reason, if you will attend to it, will 
shew you they never existed. If you were 
never stimulated by an ordinate and hon- 



88 

orable love for her — it was not only dis- 
honorable, but cruel to persist in your 
suit. But if your love was ever sincere, 
only ask your own heart, and it will tell 
you, she has yet the highest place in it. 
In common affairs, my friend, it is rarely 
necessary to take much pains to persuade 
a man to do as he pleases ; but in love 
affairs, there are many allowances to be 
made ; and I, of all men, perhaps ought 
to make them. I have traversed those 
wiles in early life, and can judge of most 
of your sensations, though I never was 
agent in a case quite similar ; for I do not 
know that ever I injured the character of 
any one ; had that been the case, I judge 
by the light of my own reason, that it ever 
would have been a thorn in my path ; and 
more, if life had been hazarded through 
my neglect. That my daughter loves you, 
is no matter of doubt with me ; neither 
can it be with you — for of that she has 
given you the highest proof. What then 
is her crime which merits such a reward? 
She has placed an implicit confidence in 
your honor and friendship ; do not suffer 
her, then, to be deceived. Her heart is 



89 

yours; and her life is, under God, at your 
disposal. You are all the world to her, 
and without you, she is apparently lost to 
herself, her friends, and the world. But 
she has still a hope ; she thinks if she 
could see you, all would yet he well — or 
if I could see you. What shall I do for 
my child ? I could only tell you, were I 
to see you, what you already know — that 
you would be welcome here. Come then, 
and speak comfort to your Lucinda — who 
loves you more than all others — more 
than is possible for her to love another, or 
any other to love you. The matter has 
become too serious to be trifled with any 
longer, or delayed for any trivial cause. 
Could she have come to you, she would 
not have hesitated. Consider impartially, 
sir, whether you have objections sufficient 
to counterbalance the destruction of one, 
who, if considered on the general scale, 
must be ranked among the lost of her sex. 
If not, make haste to heal the wounded 
heart of my daughter. It is you alone can 
save her, and restore peace of mind to the 
family of Your Friend, 

A.M. 



90 



LETTER XIV. 

from mrs. manvill to mr. brown. 

Sir : 

You will probably be surprised at an 
address from me, who has not the honor 
of a personal acquaintance ; more espe- 
cially, on a subject which will doubt- 
less be disagreeable to you : And indeed, 
sir, I am perfectly sensible that my writ- 
ing must be superfluous. Nor would I 
have troubled you therewith, had I not 
promised my poor child, that I would sup- 
plicate for her. For surely if her own pa- 
thetic entreaties, together with those of a 
disconsolate father, can have no influence, 
I certainly can not hope to be more suc- 
cessful. Should your heart be callous to 
the tender sentiments of humanity, as 
well as love, you will perhaps ask, what 
right I have to interest myself so far? Let 
me tell you, sir, I am not merely bound 
by those ties, which, as her father's wife, 
duty calls me to fulfill ; but she is my 



91 

child, by the strongest ties of maternal 
love. Her dutiful and affectionate man- 
ners, her unremitted grief, and her stead- 
fast attachment to — let me say — her per- 
secutor, all conspire to make her one of 
the most interesting characters, I ever 
saw. Nor shall she ever want a friend 
while I live. 

Now, sir, I think T hove elucidated my 
reasons for tin* liberty 1 am taking ; and 
will now presume to ask you a few ques- 
tions. Have you ever loved Lueinda, or 
haa she been the dupe of duplicity? if 
the latter] sooner would 1 consign her to 
herparent earth, to which she is apparent- 
ly hastening, than see her united to you. 
But if she ever held B plaee in your affec- 
tions, how is it possible she should be thus 
painfully abandoned ; and not she alone, 
but your own offspring ? Oh ! sir, can 
you possibly be deaf to the pleadings of 
nature ; and leave the dear innocent to 
infamy and disgrace ? Alas ! what will 
be the portion of misery allotted to it. 
For believe me, when I assure you, that 
unless your heart acknowledges its mo- 



92 

ther as the partner of your future joys 
and cares, her sufferings, I apprehend, 
will soon cease. Dear sufferer ! and can 
my heart survive the sacrifice. 

Overpowered by the distressing idea, 
and blinded by my tears, I dismissed my 
pen a few moments, till I could summon 
more fortitude. But Oh ! sir, could you 
for one moment look into our humble 
dwelling, and see the poor dying Lucinda, 
her distressed parents, her mourning 
friends (for all who know her are such) 
and know yourself the author and only 
healing physician, what must be your 
sensations ? Adieu, my tears flow so 
fast, I can not proceed. 

I again resume my pen, to tell you, our 
reliance is on that kind Providence, who 
will not reprobate our repentant child ; 
and to entreat that you seriously reflect 
on what has past ; and by seeking to re- 
dress, as far as possible, before it is too 
late, entitle yourself to the love of a now 
wretched family ; and particularly to the 
gratitude and esteem of 

P. D. M. 



03 



EXTRACTS OF A LETTER FROM LUCINDA TO 
MR. BROWN. 

My hopes are fled ; and all those days 
of blissful expectation are vanished from 
the sight of the unhappy Lnrinda. Why 
is it thus? Ah! Could you but have 
read my thoughts when last these eves 
beheld the dearest object of my affections, 
your heart must have bled for my suffer- 
ings, which were rendered mere poignant 
by thai excess of joy I fell at your ui i 
pre ted arrival.* How did my bosom 
glow with the lend idea, that the dear 
friend had come on whose breasl 1 could 

rest all my SOrTOWS J and his own heart 
would plead my cause. 

It you think me too humble for your 
wile, pray remember by whom 1 have 

been dishonored. 

If 1 have erred, as I am willing to ac- 
knowledge, pray forgive me. 1 entreat ; 
and hasten to me, that I may see one day 
more of comfort, before I depart and am 
no more. 

LUCINDA. 

*See Letter XI. 



94 
LETTER XV. 

MRS. MANVILLE TO HER SISTER. 

IN CONTINUATION. 

On the 10th of April, our son set out 
for Marcellus. The term of hisabsence, 
which was a fortnight, was spent in alter- 
nate hope and fear by his sister ; by my 
husband with expectation something 
more sanguine ; and by myself, alas ! with- 
out hope ; for having lost that enthusiasm 
which dictate I my letter, what hope 
could I have, if indeed he should come, 
in seeing the daughter of patience, truth 
and piety, united to such an abandoned 
reprobate ? But yet, as to see him once 
more was the only earthly desire which 
found room in her heart, for her sake, I 
most sincerely wished it. 

As one continual series of events filled 
up the measure of time till the return of 
her brother, I will not tire your patience 
by dwelling on them ; but proceed to the 
more interesting particulars of his mis- 



95 

sion. As our little family sat one even- 
ing collected round a fire, which must 
have expanded every heart but those con- 
gealed in woe, he entered. On his coun- 
tenance was depicted strong marks of dis- 
appointment 1 do n<»t recollect who first 
addressed him; but when he was asked 
what news, his answers n wr. 

However, I saw from some of bis words, 
that Lucinda had caught b ray of ho] 
an<i dreading tq bave it extinguished, al- 
ter having been confirmed by conjecture, 
I requested turn to give a candid relation, 

I no! excite b bope which might not 
be gratified. He replied, that he would 
give us the particulars of their interview, 
and Leave as to judge for ourseh 

He then proceeded to tell us. that the 
last day of bis journey out, he met Air. 
Brown on the road ; the sight of him, be 
continued, so agitated him, he could 

tree speak without betraying th< 
emotions he wished to conceal. He how- 

er addressed him witb the common 
ceremonies of an old acquaintance; in- 
quired after his uncle's family. &c, but 



96 

did not give him the letters, as he ob- 
served he should be at Mr. Whitney's the 
next day. They then parted, and he pro- 
ceeded on to his uncle's, where he in- 
formed them of the purport of his visit, 
and likewise of the painful and precarious 
state of his sister. He then gave them a 
letter from her, together with all those for 
Mr. Brown, that they might be delivered 
to him by Mr. Whitney, who was nee 
sarily in his confidence. Mr. Brown, 
however, did not arrive till the third day. 
and then made his appearance in all the 
pompous parade of disdainful arrogance. 
The letters were given him ; when he 
very impertinently asked, if they had been 
opened; and being answered in the nega- 
tive, observed, he did not choose they 
should be. Mr. Whitney ventured to re- 
monstrate ; and pointed out to him the 
inutility of such a step, in colors so im- 
pressive, that he was at last prevailed on 
to hear them. They retired to a separate 
apartment, where they continued some 
time in the perusal; but their contents 
had no effect on the brutal heart of him 



97 

to Avhom they were directed, as you Avill 
assured when T tell you he threw them 
ide, and lefl the house. How- 
r, when he came in again, Mr>. Whit- 
ney (who bs amiablenessg itself) look up 
the melancholy subjeel in hehalf of her 
unfortunate d She observed to him. 

thai he had ever teen treated with the 
nii! in their family, and 

wished to know if Lucinda had ei er of 
fended him. Be readily replied, " Bj no 
means— the truth is," continued he, for 
I d<> do1 wish to dissemble, " that we had 
agreed to be unit* d." Mark the word 
•. which lie had substitu- 
ted for the i solemn engagements 
Bui ( Mi ! he musl one (lay appear bef 
the awful throne of < ►mnipot nee ! A I- 
when I think of this, I could almost | 
him. Bu1 t<> continue — ho further added, 
"but she has hitherto slighted me." 

Her brother th< e him an unequi- 

vocal account of her situation; and en- 
treated that he would pay soine regard to 
the UtW8 of humanity. The hardened 
wretch replied, that should she not liv< 
9 



98 

two hours, he should feel perfectly happy 
on his own account. Thus ended their 
conversation for that time. And here 
suffer me to conclude this letter after re- 
marking, that it is past a doubt with me, 
that from the first moment his suit was 
denied (however politely in other respects 
he was treated) the demon of resentment 
determined her ruin ; and so fixed and 
unalterable was his revenge, that he hesi- 
tated at no crime, that could in any de- 
gree tend to the accomplishment of it. 
And as the first requisite thereto, it was 
necessary that he should feign the most 
honorable and disinterested attachment. 
To a heart wholly unacquainted except 
by precept, with the deceit of man, it was 
morally impossible that his wretched vic- 
tim should detect his complicated arts, 
which ceased not till he had (by some 
yet unknown means) violated all the 
laws of heaven and earth; and for which 
the avenging wrath of God will most as- 
suredly call him to answer. Is it won- 
derful then, that the man who from early 
infancy must have possessed the most 



99 

abandoned principles ; and who necessa- 
rily must ever have been on his guard to 
conceal them, is it wonderful, I ask again, 
that such a man should be uneducated 
or uninformed, in any other science than 
that of duplicity. But I forgot myself. 
Adieu, my sister; and pardon all the er- 
rors which the painful interest 1 feci in 
what I am relating, imperceptibly leads 
me into. Again, adieu. 



100 



LETTER XVI. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 

IN CONTINUATION. 

In a further conversation between Mrs. 
Whitney and Mr. Brown, she desired he 
would inform her, if there existed no 
more laudable motives for his discarding 
her niece, than had been already de- 
scribed. To which he most insultingly 
replied, that Lucinda had been plainly 
brought up. For himself, he had traveled 
and studied improvement ; was admitted 
into the society of gentlemen of respect- 
ability and figure ; they also visited at 
his house, &c, intimating that he thought 
her manners not sufficiently elegant to 
distinguish his entertainments from those 
of the vulgar ! Mrs. Whitney very reason- 
ably offended, replied with some warmth, 
that humble as the education of her niece 
had been, and though she was the daugh- 
ter of a poor man ; yet she could both 
read and write. This last stroke some- 



101 

what confounded him, and he found him- 
self no longer able to defend his cause. 

Next morning, being the time appoint- 
ed for our son to set out fox home, and 
Mr. Brown being ready to depart that 
evening, desired him to walk out with 
him a short distance, wying, he wished 
to havr Mime conversation with him 
alone. He the* complied. Bu1 in- 
ad of the haughty canl of the precedr 
ing evening, he now assumed the lan- 
age of a petitioner, Observing, that 

should he be publicly called upon, BO criti- 
cally was he circumstanced, thai it would 
inevitably ruin him. He further added. 
that his si>ter'> Letter was more agreeable 
in its contents than he had expected to 
find it ; and that when he saw her, all 
would he settled. u 1 do Hot doliht ft," 

replied the brother with warmth, u bu1 I 

presume you are determined that time 
shall never come." M If God spares my 
life/' rejoined the reprobate, "I will he 
there in three weeks from this day." On 
that they parted — he rode off, and our son 
returned to the house. It was. however, 



10-2 

so plain, (comparing all that had passed, 
with his present conduct) that his last 
conversation was a finesse to elude public 
justice, that one of the young Mr. AVhit- 
neys conceived himself no longer bound 
by the ties of honor to respect the confi- 
dence of such a wretch, now communicat- 
ted to all present, that Mr. Brown had told 
him some time past, that he was very 
much attached to a young lady in Scipio, 
of some considerable prospects ; but had 
not as yet made any address to her. He 
further added, that since that time, the 
young lady's father had inquired of him 
the character of Mr. Brown. This ap- 
pears to have been a very singular cir- 
cumstance, that Mr. Brown should pre- 
sume to boast of his attachment to Mr. 
Whitney, when he knew that he must 
have been sensible, that he was under en- 
gagements to his cousin. It is, however. 
most rational to suppose, that he expected 
he would immediately inform her of it : 
and she would then be prepared for what 
he intended. Far otherwise, Mr. Whit- 
ney considered himself bound by honor, 



103 

not to betray a confidence reposed in him 
— mure especially as he had no suspicion 
the honor of Lucinda was bo deeply con- 
cerned in it. And indeed it Mould have 
beoi useless, as it was then too late to 
hav< (I her, and as gratitude to him 

for his considerate tenderness towards 
her, demands thai I should do him jus- 
tice. Let me further add, that lie was 
the same gentleman, by \\ bom the 

inconsistent Mr. Brown (after informing 
him of his new attachment) sent the ver- 
bal message na ationed in her narratii 

If tie .Mr. While 

certainly he did, that he was coming to 
fulfil] his i ments, he certainly could 

not ha mark of af- 

fection, exclusii i of tie- ties of lienor, 
than t<> withhold from hertheknowled 
that her husband preferred another. 

And now, as I humbly hope I have ful- 
ly acquitted Mr. Whitney of any breach 
of duty, or dishonorable concealment, I 
return again to our -on. the last of whose 
narrative, more sensibly affected his sis 

* See Letter XL 



104 

ter, than all the preceding insolence with 
which she had been treated. Indeed for 
twenty-four hours, her cries were almost 
incessant. At length, seeming to catch a 
hope, from the idea, that he could not 
thus cruelly forsake her, she collected 
some little degree of fortitude and looked 
forward with an apparent expectation of 
once more seeing, and expiring on the bo- 
som of her loved assassin. Each day she 
would walk out; and sealed on a bank, 
which commanded, at some distance, a 
short view of the road, she would sit till 
her eyes became dim with watching and 
weeping, and her body enervated by the 
cold chills of spring ; when returning to 
the house, she would enter it with that 
sweet smile, which ever marked her coun- 
tenance, and rendered her sorrows doubly 
interesting. Sometimes she would stay 
out so long, that alarmed for her safety, I 
would follow her ; but indeed her griefs 
ever appeared too sacred to be molested. 
At length the utmost limits of time pre- 
fixed for his coming arrived — it pa>sed. 
" Alas !' ? she cried — " still let me hope for 



106 

one poor week longer ; he seldom ever 
came at the time appointed." Oh! my 
sister, my tears flow so fast at the cruel 
recollection of what I have so painfully 
witnessed, thai f can not proceed. 



106 



LETTER XVII. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 

IN COHTIKUATIOlf, 

All my care and attention was now de- 
voted to our poor distressed Lucinda. I 
exerted all my powers — I offered books 
for her perusal, which I hoped at least 
might amuse her for a moment. Among 
the number was Charlotte Temple, which 
I strongly recommended ; and desired 
that she would draw therefrom, some 
comparative ideas, whereby she would 
find the balance of wretchedness on the 
part of Charlotte, who, far distant from 
her native land, and every dear and ten- 
der connexion, lingered out a wretched 
existence, aggravated by all the poign- 
ancy of cold and hunger. While she, 
on the other hand, was surrounded by 
those who loved, pitied, and would do 
every thing in their power, which could 
afford her the least comfort ; and though 
our circumstances were humble, vet we 



107 

did not want the y means of 

support. My endearors were all lost — 
orbed in her own sorrows, she had no 
room in her h< t the distresses of 

another. 

Hope has a1 length fled the bosom oi 
our child ; ami in i ve behold 

unaffected piety and i ation, a\ h< 

influence, like the mild beams of the 
in. illuminated h< r heart. Bui 
mark, my sister, the deci 
do not ask wrho I it \ every 

feeling heart must rei oil at their nan 
suffer me -e them. Ptobably, Imw- 

r, they supposed 1 1 re dischai 

ing a public duty; I ii re pardon 

them. Bui while 1 am d my com- 

ments, I fin on are in suspen 

Know then that Lucinda aol a law- 

ful resident oft I reenfield; neither had her 
father an}- legal pa which could 

secure her a Inane. Yen will comprehend 
the rest. Sen." time about the middle of 
May, two magistrates 4 arrived at our 

Mestn Child and Prior. 



108 

cottage. My heart sunk within me at the 
sight of them; as we had previously been 
informed that a complaint had been 
lodged. Our poor child was sitting with 
me, appearing to be unusually calm and 
placid, when accidentally stepping to the 
door, I saw them conversing with 31 r. 
Manvill, a little distance from the house. 
As she knew nothing of our apprehen- 
sions, I stepped back, and told her there 
was company at the door, that lniirht 
probably come in with her father; there- 
fore, as usual, she went to her little apart- 
ment, unconscious that she must so soon 
be called to attend them. They came in. 
and imparted to mo their business, while 
her father went in to prepare her for the 
stroke. He staid but a lew moment- : 
but coming out desired me to attend her. 
I instantly obeyed — found her sunk on 
her bed, absorbed in the bitterness of woe. 
"Oh! my Lucinda ! my child! What 
shall I do to comfort you?'' Unable to 
say more, I threw myself on the bed 
beside her, and wept aloud! My first 
transport of grief a little subsiding, 1 



109 

look bet hand, and endeavored to 
compose and fortify her mind that she 
mighl be enabled to walk out ; her lather 
then returned, begged her to becalm, far 
that the gentlemen were friends, and 
would treal tie 4 matter with tendern* 
•• ^ i not. therefore," continued he, 

"to treat them disrespectfully by detain- 
ing them ; H then desiri \\ ould walk 
on! .11 as possible, he again lefll us. 
Raising her streaming to nte, with 
a \ oice of supplication, she cried out : 
11 < Mi ! mamma ' spare me hut one mo- 
ment I" and fell back on the bed from 
which she had jusl risen. I stopped 
short ; when in a moment, seeming to 
recoiled herself] she again arose, gave 
me her hand, and I led her out. Her 
figure iras naturally delicate, and being 
rendered doubly interesting by those traits 
of sorrow and anguish which had for so 
many month d on her constitution ; 
the humane magistrates were affected, 
and proceeded with the ntmori caution 
Kecution of their office. The] 
: took the testimony of her father, 

10 



no 

respecting his last residence previous to 
her being of age ; then hers of her man- 
ner of living since she left him, and of 
what she at present possessed, then tend- 
erly dismissed her. They walked out 
alone for a few moments, and when they 
returned, closed the painful scene. "We 
had three days given us to procure bail ; 
or commit our poor dying child to the 
care of the public. Oh! my sister, I 
thought my heart would have burst ! 
Even now — I can write no more. 



Ill 



LETTER XVIII. 

r.WVILL TO HI RR. 

I remained 6 oomeats silent, not 

knowing what to do with myself .Mr. 
ICanriU was Lost in thought. 1 read his 
sentiments from my own heart It was a 

vny delicate thing for a lather to a>k any 

one to be security lor him in inch a ease, 
11 had he been assured of success ; and 

to have her taken from lis in Mich a pre- 
carioafl state, was still more painful. Sum- 
moning, therefore, all my iortitude, I 
ssked the gentlemen if the decision of the 
law paid no regard to the principles of lm- 
manity. " Most certainly, M they replied. 
I then observed to them, that I thought 
the peculiar situation of our dauidi 
rendered it very dangerous to remove her. 
They admitted, that of course I must 
know better than any other person ; and 
asked if I was willing to give my affida- 



112 

vit. I told them, to determine on the de- 
crees of Providence, was what I could not 
do ; but I was willing to give testimony 
of my sentiments. They observed, that 
presumptive evidence was all that was re- 
quired; or indeed all that could be ob- 
tained in such cases. They therefore took 
my deposition, which for the present miti- 
gated the rigor of the law, and secured 
the dear suffering saint under paternal 
care. They then in a very friendly man- 
ner, took their leave ; recommending to 
us the exercise of fortitude and resigna- 
tion ; which indeed had become two very 
essential requisites for our support. This 
last, and to her most unexpected stroke of 
Providence, was like the cold blasts of 
December on the tender blossom; who 
unconscious of its approach, had peeped 
forth its latent beauties, in that inclement 
season — and as the fatal blight seals up 
the yielding plant, till the return of spring 
bids it resume and expand its native 
colours, and more odoriferous sweets — so 
from this moment we dismissed every 
hope of comfort in our child, till the sweet 



113 

sounds of universal peace shall prevail: 
when wickedness shall no more pervade 
the heart of man. And then, oh ! then 
my sister, do T trust that we shall see our 
dear departed one, clothed in robes of ce- 
lestial light, sitting among the martyred 
saints, at the right hand of Omnipotence. 



114 



LETTER XIX. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 

IN CONTINUATION. 

Her tears ceased to flow — deep and 
hollow groans, which frequently assailed 
my ears, sunk into my bosom ; and though 
without any apparent success, I ceased 
not my endeavors to soften those griefs, 
which flowed, not merely for herself; but 
which were evidently more poignant on 
our accounts, than on her own. Yet not- 
withstanding she appeared insensible to 
every thing I could offer for her relief, she 
seemed more affectionately attached to 
me than ever — nor would she willingly 
suffer me to be away from her. The sacred 
volume, which had been much her com- 
panion, she could now no longer read. 
Her eyes bad become dim through sor- 
row and weakness ; neither could she, as 
she had frequently done, select some fa- 
vorite Psalm, most applicable to her situa- 



115 

tion, and sing with me ; till touched with 
the melancholy sweetness of her voice, I 
could sing no longer. Those things were 
done away ; she now looked forward to 
death as her last hope and refuge. 

Now my sister, I will tell you a conver- 
sation, which, when you consider what is 
due to the memory of my grateful child, 
I presume will excuse me from the cen- 
sure of egotism. As I was sitting by her 
one day, she thus addressed me ; — " You 
know not, when I first came to this house, 
how difficult it was for me to call you 
mamma — nor yet how dear the sound is 
now to my heart. I love to dwell on it. 
Nor can my dear mamma ever know the 
sweet consolations I have received from 
her kind sympathy and tender care, which 
Heaven only can reward. And though en- 
veloped in the complicated miseries of 
disgrace and disappointment, I have in 
the moments of enthusiasm, even dared 
to anticipate the delight of revisiting my 
father's house (should my still dear be- 
trayer take me from it) since I was now 
assured, I had a second mamma ; but 



116 

alas ! the illusion is now vanished, and I 
have but one hope, which is, to be par- 
doned and accepted of that God, against 
whose holy commands I have sinned ; and 
who I now trust, sees the unaffected peni- 
tence of my soul. And as there is little 
probability that I shall survive the ap- 
proaching hour of distress, I wish to dis- 
pose of what little I have in such a man- 
ner as may be most consistent with justice 
and affection ; and though I have but lit- 
tle to give, yet I fear it will be out of my 
power to give satisfaction. " She then 
spoke of what had been done for her, and 
the still further trouble she might be to 
us ; seeming to fear we should take it un- 
kind, should she give any thing from us. 
" Lucinda, " said I, " believe what I am 
now going to say to you — not merely for 
myself, but for your father, for whom I 
think I may with safety speak. It is my 
most sincere wish, that you dispose of 
what you have, agreeable to the dictates 
of your own heart ; and be assured of 
this, my child, that, whoever is offended 
with you for that, never loved you. " She 



117 

seemed much more composed after this, 
and commenced writing; observing, how- 
ever, that she would want some assist- 
ance. I told her if forms were necessary, 
she could easily obtain them ; but I did 
not conceive them to be. Her desires 
were all that were wanting to be known, 
and I presumed to say, that should her 
father or myself survive her, they should 
be executed with as much punctilio, as 
though they were written by a notary. 
She then desired I would assist her in 
pricing, particularly those things that had 
bet n given her by her father. 1 therefl 
lent her all the aid in my power in that 
respect ; but told her she must not insist 
on my seeing the writing, nor indeed any 
one else; but seal it up when she had 
done, and if it was consistent with Divine 
will that she should be restored to us, 
there would he no necessity of any one 
knowing the contents. She now devoted 
what little time she was able to sit up, to 
the little arrangements of her temporal 
concerns. "When she had got through and 
sealed them up, she told me she felt eased 



118 

of a burthen that had for some time dis- 
tressed her. Then pointing out to me the 
garments reserved for her grave-clothes, 
together with some trifling articles not 
particularized in her will, she observed 
she had done all that lay in her power ; 
hoped that no one would think hard of 
her — for that it was not possible to ex- 
hibit that love she felt for all her friends. 
She further added, that on her parents she 
relied for the fulfillment of her desires, 
which I assured her, should be regarded 
as sacred injunctions. 



119 



LETTER XX. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 

M "AT I U.N. 

A few days after, sister M can 

to make us b visit ; when the evening 
approached and Bhe was preparing to de- 
part, 1 told Lueinda (who bad sat up 
long enough to take tea with us) that I 
was going to leave her; and walk a little 
way with her aunt. She seemed very 
willing, and wo set off — proceeded slow- 
ly forward, and often stopping to real ; 
we had gone more than half a mile, and 
got quite in sight of the settlements at the 
foot of the Mountain, before we were 
sensible of having walked so far. But 
being then deeply engaged on the subject 
of our misfortune, we were unwilling to 
part. We therefore seated ourselves on 
a fallen tree, and sat till almost dusk. 
when we found it necessary to take leave 
of each other. And though the distance 



120 

to walk back was not very great ; yet at 
that late hour, in the state of mind I 
then was, the wood appeared very gloomy, 
and fearing my family would be uneasy, 
I returned with hasty steps. But judge 
my surprise, when at the foot of a little 
descent, which marked the way to our 
cottage, on a log beside the path, wrapt 
in a small blanket, sat the wretched 
Lucinda ! Greatly agitated, " my child," 
said I, "what is the matter?" "Don't 
be alarmed, mamma," she answered with 
a sweet smile ; " I set out directly after 
you, intending to walk back with you ; 
I therefore followed slowly after, stop- 
ping whenever you did, that I might not 
interrupt you, till a short turn took you 
from my sight ; notwithstanding I kept 
forward, till I came within view of open 
fields ; and there being several paths 
which intercepted each other, and not 
knowing which to take, I sat down with 
the intent of waiting for you there ; but 
staying some time without seeing you, 
and fearing I had already made some 
mistake, I hastened back till I was sure 



121 

of being right; and here I have been 
sitting a good while, but don't be uneasy, 
I am not tired/' Fearing it would be 
dark. I stopped but for a moment. Her 
countenance was animated, and she 
stepped up the hill with apparent alacrity. 
Believe me, my sister, the circum- 
stance I have recited, however trivial in 
itself, affected me not a little. Next 
morning she told me she had rested better 
that night than she had done since she 

:ie home. Her decisive hour approach- 
ing, and it !>• Ldispensably necessary 
that her lather or myself should leave 
home for the purpose of procuring such 
things as our Mountain did not afford as, 
1 thought then was a proper time to men- 
tion it ; yel knew not how to prop 
leaving her, and it was extremely incon- 

lient lor liiiii to leave his busini 
However, I at length ventured to ask her 
if she was willing to spare me while I 
could ride to a store, a few miles distant. 
She replied that since it was necessary 
she was willing ; but ere T was ready, she 
was apparently more indisposed and 
n 



122 

gloomy than usual ; so that I was un- 
willing to leave her ; yet knew not how 
to avoid it. She saw my embarrassment, 
and insisted on my going, saying I should 
not be gone long. " No," I told her, "but 
a few hours." Then turning to my 
youngest daughter, I spoke to her of some 
little articles of clothing which she 
needed, and which had been promised 
her. While we were talking, her sister 
desired to speak with me ; when we were 
alone, " mamma," said she, "I do not 
wish to disappoint Julia ; but I request 
that you will not get the things you were 
speaking of, as you are already sufficiently 
embarrassed on my account ; and I have 
made such arrangements, as will perhaps 
render it unnecessary." Then extending 
both her arms towards me, and bursting 
into tears, " Oh ! mamma my fete will 
soon be determined." I embraced her; 
begged she would be composed, and not 
talk of leaving us, adding, we still hoped 
that she might be restored to us, and 
enjoy what she possessed. Apparently 
insensible to what I had said, she remain- 



123 

ed some time before she spoke ; at length 
she observed with extreme regret (as she 
had often done before) that I could not 
wear her clothing. I stopped her. "My 
dear child/ 1 said I. " be happy on that ac- 
count ; for should it be the will of Provi- 
dence to take you from us. however dear 
I might esteem any gifts of yours, be as- 
sured thai your affectionate manners to- 
ward- me, has fixed a more indelible me- 
mento in my heart, than could ever have 
been implanted there by all the perishable 
goods of this world." Adieu. 



124 
LETTER XXI. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 

IN CONTINUATION. 

And now my sister, methinks I hear 
you emphatically exclaim, and is it pos- 
sible you could have left her, if but for a 
moment, in the situation you have de- 
scribed. Suspend your censure a moment, 
and hear me. She still insisted on my go- 
ing, and when I reflected, that situated as 
we were, should assistance be soon want- 
ing, it would be much better for me to be 
absent than her father; I hesitated no 
longer, but instantly left her, made every 
possible dispatch, and returned under the 
impressions of a thousand painful sensa- 
tions. It was late in the afternoon ; she 
met me at the door, but was unable to 
speak. When she could, she informed 
me she had been writing, during nay ab- 
sence, to Mr. Brown ; but being very ill, 
was obliged to leave it before she had 
written all she wished to. Finding it ne- 



125 

cessary, I delayed not a moment to in- 
form her father of her situation, who with 
the most ardent zeal of a tender parent, 
exerted himself so that by ten o'clock in 
the evening, distant as we were from our 
neighbors we had every necessary assist- 
ance. But oh ! my Nancy, through the 
horrors of an awful night, how incessant- 
ly did T wish, that the deal Sufferer in 
all the agonies of excruciating distn 
might he presenl to the imagination of 
the cruel author, that lie might he 4 able 
to form some faint idea, of the crimes he 
had committed, and detest himself ac- 
cordingly. Alternate hope and fear pre- 
vailed tor many hours ; at length the ri- 
sing Min, and the birth of a lovely female 
infant, in a measure dispelled the gloom 
which pervaded every heart. Lncinda 
was apparently comfort aide ; her mind 
was serene as the morning ; and even 
emitted a ray of celestial joy. But here 
let me rest. 



126 



LETTER XXII. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 

in CONTINUATION. 

She continued thus, through the first 
and part of the second day ; when we 
began to discover an essential change. 
She grew extremely restless, and at times 
her intellects appeared to be deranged. 
However, being unwilling to be burden- 
some to our good friends and neighbors, 
her father and I sat up, by turns, (never 
undressing) till the fifth day. She had 
been very much distressed through the 
preceding night, but in the morning ap- 
peared more calm ; and I had left her for 
a few moments to prepare some little 
nourishments for her. When I returned 
again, " oh! mamma!" said she as I en- 
tered the room, " do come and sit down 
with me on the bed ; I am now happy." 
Then taking my hand, she continued, " I 
have just been at prayer ; and never before 
did I feel such fervor, such ardent desires, 



1-27 

the Lord has heard me, I saw my dear 
Saviour in the clouds, I feel at peace with 
the whole world." Then stopping a mo- 
ment as if to recollect something, she 
said, " pray bring my last writing and 
read it to me ; I want to know if it con- 
tains any thing that can give pain. 
Happy myself) I feel a sincere wish to 
make ever) one else bo." 1 went and 
fetched the letter* she had written the 
day preceding the birth of her child; a 
rough draught of which 1 have enclosed 
for your perusaL Yon will be so good as to 
recoiled under what painful circumstan- 
it was written, and spare the eye of 
criticism. 

* See Letter XXI 



128 



LETTER XXIII 

lucinda's last letter to mr. brown. 

Sir: 

Once more I presume to present you 
with the productions of a trembling hand 
and a bleeding heart. You may not feel 
a disposition to pay an immediate atten- 
tion to my sufferings, yet I trust you will 
not always be capable of evading the 
stings of remorse. On you I once placed 
my whole heart ; my mind was absorbed 
in the idea of being happy with you, and 
of making you happy. In this blind 
affection I have too far lost a sense of my 
duty to my God, and by you I am made 
wretched. If I had trusted in my Saviour 
as I trusted in you, I never should have 
fallen. But this is the effect of my love. 
Oh! my dear sir, had you not been dear 
as my own heart, this never would have 
been. Had I considered you as a stran- 
ger, or an enemy, I should have fled far 



1-29 

from you. But trusting on you as on my 
dearest friend and guide, I have fallen a 
to my misplaced confidence. 
Wh the love you once professed for 

me? 0! where is your honor? If it 
was only my ruin 3 and think 

that acting the part of a gentleman, you 
will perhaps exult for a while in your 
conquest. Bui is Li >ie that you 

can think Midi conduct consistent either 
with the ties of honor or the laws of 
humanit] I Le1 me ask h i dispel 

with the pmnii .11 have made me ? 

Did you 11 tinise to the Supreme 1 1 

of 1 1 1. that I should not suffer by 

yen. and that you would be ever ready 

my support and defence as Long as 

you could crawl, even on your hands and 

with many oth< r vows, which you 

called ( rod to win you not 

professed to consider me a • wile, 

and set tiqies fv the completion of the 

nuptial tie>? Did you not promise my 
brother" that if Cod spared your I 
you would be here within three we< 

* See Letter XVI. 



130 

from the time you parted with him ? I 
am your wife ; and you might with equal 
propriety have discarded me after the 
public performance of the marriage cere- 
mony. How can this be ? Have I ever 
labored under a cruel deception, or did 
you once love ? If the latter, why this 
change of sentiments ? Is pride the 
origin ? If so, know that it will end in 
ruin ! 

You say that you never should have gone 
to the westward, had it not have been on 
my account. If this be the case, and, 
you had gained an interest by it, I think 
I ought to have shared it with you. I 
am further informed # that you acknow- 
ledge you " ever thought I should make 
a poor man a good wife, 5 ' but that now 
you thought yourself something better. 
He that gave can take away ; and you 
may yet be glad of one, who would be 
suitable for a poor man. You further ob- 
ject to my plain breeding.f I would ask 
you to consider your own ; you have 
little indeed to boast on account of an 

* See Letter XII. t See Letter XVI. 



131 

education. That remark of yours my 
friends despise ; and I think you ought to 
despise it yourself You boast of your 
improvement by travel and society with 
people of distinction ; but it seems you 
are insensible of that which constitutes 
a gentleman. 

My brother informed you of my dan- 
gerous state, from which it seems you an- 
ticipated much happiness. Should it 
God' s will to call you first, 1 should mourn 
over you, as for the Loss of a dear friend. 
Yet, you will rejoice over my grave. Bui 
1 have prayed thai Heaven might prosper 
you on earth, and give yen wisdom so to 
reflect on the evil of your ways, as may 
lead you to repentance, that you may ob- 
tain forgiveness of that Being, who claims 
a right to vengeance, and who hath de- 
clared in Ids sacred word, that In 4 will re- 
pay. Adieu ! my dear Meh in ! Again 1 
say farewell, and it may he a long farewell, 
From vour victim. 

LUCINDA MANVTLL. 



132 
LETTER XXIV. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 

IN CONTINUATION. 

When I had finished reading, as she had 
requested, she made many comments on 
some parts of the letter, observing that 
they appeared too much like reflection. 
She therefore desired I would write once 
more to him ; tell him she wished to re- 
call that part of her letter ; and likewise 
entreat for pity in behalf of her infant. 
And now, Nancy, shall I here acknow- 
ledge, that those two requests I have not 
literally fulfilled. For the first, my indig- 
nant soul could not stoop to tell him she 
was sorry for anything she had written. 
Yet I in some degree have ; for I wrote to 
Mr. "Whitney, to whom (agreeably to her 
request) Brown's letter was inclosed ; and 
requested that he would read my letter to 
the wretch, which might answer the same 
purpose, as if I had written to him. And 
respecting her babe, I believe she was 



133 

conscious before she departed life, that 
justice ought to take place ; though in the 
first moments of blissful assurance, she 
fancied every heart like her own, purified 
from all the evils of this life ; consequently 
thought that should he once hear of her 
poor babe, his bosom would cleave to it. 
A few boon after, she became very un- 
v. and wanted her father called in. and 
desired we would both sit witb her. She 
thell asked us many question* — particu- 
larly our sentiments respecting that pas- 
sage in Holy Writ, where it is said, thai 
the offspring of illicit connections, "shall 
not enter the kingdom of Heaven, even 
unto the tenth generation." This we 
found was a matter of great anxiety to 
her. We therefore gave her all tin 4 con- 
solation in our power representing to her 
the love of a Redeemer, who made no dis- 
tinctions. She seented more composed on 
that account, hut wanted the assistance 
of some Divine, who perhaps might throw 
some new light on her way, which not- 
Withstanding her blessed assurance in the 
morning, began to be somewhat over- 
12 



134 

clouded. She likewise desired that her 
sister might be immediately sent for, as it 
appeared she had but little longer to stay 
with us. Each request was fulfilled in 
sending for those she wished to see. Our 
kind neighbors being apprised of her situ- 
ation, flocked in to offer their generous as- 
sistance, which was indeed become ex- 
tremely necessary. Physical aid* was 
immediately called, that nothing should 
be omitted which might possibly afford 
relief. Next day, her sister arrived. Lu- 
cinda had been very much distressed, lest 
she should not reach her, before she re- 
ceived the last summons — which, though 
for many months she had impatiently 
waited, yet now for the sake of her infant, 
she could have wished it postponed, if 
consistent with the will of Providence. 
But now mark, my sister, the kind con- 
cern she felt for us all. When she heard 
that Eliza had come, she took hold of my 
hand as I sat by her — u Mamma," said 

* Doctors Barney and Hix, attending Physicians, who not 
merely officiated as gentlemen of the faculty, but as sincere and 
interested friends, to whom our grateful thanks are due. 



135 

she, "don't weep; but receive her cheer- 
fully — do." But the advice she wished 
to impress on my heart, had a very oppo- 
site effect Here let me pass over a meet- 
ing, as the sensations to which it gave 
rise, ao words can paint. 



136 
LETTER XXV. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 

IN CONTINUATION . 

Our friends in general, and indeed ev- 
ery friend to humanity, enjoined it on us, 
to take such measures previous to her dis- 
solution, which was apparently fast ap- 
proaching, as would leave it in our power, 
to demand of him all the justice that was 
in his power to give or us to receive. This 
was a very delicate matter, as she had 
never given public testimony of the father 
of her babe; and her intellects were so 
easily deranged, that we apprehended 
that the least alarm, might incapacitate 
her for the sacred duty. We therefore, 
without informing her of the design, that 
she might not be distressed by anticipa- 
tion, sent for one of those gentleman* 
mentioned in a preceding letter, to take 
her deposition. When he arrived, her 
father in the most tender manner, un- 

* See Letter XVII. 



137 

folded the business to her; adding there- 
unto, the injustice it would be doing, not 
merely to herself, but to all her eonnec- 
tions ; more particularly to her helpless 
infant, whom she would tor ever deprive 
of any assistance from its cruel father, by 
delaying so neceesftiry a step. Neither was 

that all — tor notwithstanding we had both 
promised her. that her child should never 
sutler while Providence g&Ye Us power to 

defend it; yet it was more than probable, 

in our present circumstances (aa her pttt- 
perty whs by no means an adequate fund) 
that we should stand in need of some as- 
sistance tor it^ support; and from whom 
could we receive it with so much pro- 
priety, as from the author of its existence. 
The ahove reasons were very influential ; 
and she supported herself through the 
painful trial, with more composure than 
1 had presumed to hope for. But soon as 
it was over, she beckoned me to her, when 
speaking in alow voice — " Mamma my 
task is done ! — and I feel my life fast flee- 
ing from me ! " Assisted by some kind 
friends, I did every thing which reason or 



138 

pity suggested, to soothe and tranquilize 
her. 

A little while after, when no one but 
myself was with her, she looked upon me 
with anxious earnestness, and attempted 
to elucidate more fully the cruel transac- 
tion, of which I had been but imperfectly 
informed. "Oh!" said she, "I still re- 
member his cruel and triumphant words 
— that "resistance would no longer avail 
me!" Here she seemed to pause for a 
moment, as if intending to proceed ; but 
the distressing recollection deprived her 
of reason ; and she fell back on her bed, 
from which, in the agonizing remem- 
brance of past sufferings, she had raised, 
and appeared totally insensible of all her 
past or present distresses. Once more 
then, my dear sister, and probably for ever 
am I left in the chaos of conjecture, re- 
specting the cruel arts which were first 
made use of to subdue her rigid virtue. 
They were, however, doubtless such as 
would have justified the most stern de- 
cision of the law, had not that unprece- 
dented love, which perhaps never before, 



139 

and I presume to hope, will never here- 
after find place in a female hosom, plead 
for the inhuman assassin, who first dis- 
honored her by violence, and then lulled 
her into a life of infamy for several 
months, hy the most sacred promises of 
an inseparable union. Oh ! Nancy, hot* 
ardently CQClld J wish, thai every soul of 
nitspotted innocence, might read and 
mentally realize the wrongs and sufferings 
of the unfortunate Lttcincfa 



140 



LETTER XXVI. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 

IN CONTINUATION. 

You will probably be surprised, that in 
her letter to Mr. Brown, she did not speak 
of the cruel circumstances mentioned in 
my last. I will therefore tell you my sen- 
timents. As she frequently observed, she 
could never forgive herself, for the sins 
she had committed against her Maker, in 
consenting, however reluctantly, to live, 
if but for one day, in violation of his holy 
laws, she probably thought it would be 
criminal in her to reflect on him, as that 
might appear to be building her hope of 
pardon on his condemnation. There also 
appears to have been an additional reason. 
She had desired me not to let it be known 
to her father,* evidently fearing that he 
might personally avenge her wrongs ; and 

* See Letter XI. 



141 

if she mentioned it in her writings, which 
he would mo>t probably see, it would 
then he exposed. 

But now. my Bister, as a tribute due to 
the memory of immolated excellence, I 
conceive it my duty to let it he known. 
It may further be of the most sacred 
utility to those dear, young and innocent 
females, who healing of it, may wish to 
profit by the awful warning it presents, 
by being placed ;i- i sentinel in their 
bosoms, which will be ever watchful and 
ready to warn them of the approach of 
danger, under the mask of a most pure 
and disinterested attachment. But you 
will pardon my digression, if such it may 
he called | and attend further. After my 
child had been for some time in a state of 
apparent insensibility, she seemed to have 
collected some little degree of strength 
and reason, and asked for her hahe, 
pressed it fondly to her bosom, and wept 
over it ; ohserving, that as I was weakly, 
she cotlld have wished it, had it been 
consistent, for her Bitter to have taken it ; 
hut as she was unsettled in the world, she 



142 

could not ask it. She then remarked, 
that if her child should live, the Will she 
had written would be useless, and though 
she was sensible she had not enough to 
bring* it up, yet wished to have something 
kept for it. She then asked me to call 
her father. I did. AVhen he came in, 
she desired him to write for her. He 
therefore sat down by her, and wrote ac- 
cording to her directions. First submit- 
ting her babe with all she possessed, to 
his and my care ; then after making the 
reserves in its favor, together with some 
little bequests to her sister, it was signed, 
sealed, and witnessed. A few hours after, 
she called me to sit down by her, when 
she said " mamma, you have had a great 
deal of trouble in taking care of me, and 
if it should live, you will have much more 
in taking care of my child, I have done 
wrong, pray call my lather again, that my 
will may be altered while those friends are 
here, that witnessed the other." I was 
really grieved, this apparent conflict be- 
twixt justice, filial affection and maternal 
love, was truly distressing. I however 



143 

obeyed her request, and again left the 
room. She expressed to him much anxi- 
ety ib? having reserved so much for her 
child, and begged him to alter it. But he 
put her oil", assuring her that every thing 
\vlii( h was in our power to do, either lor 
her or her child, would be freely done ; 
but as far writing, perhaps it might be 
useless, for if we could not obtain justi 
in any <!• of its father, we should 

probably be obliged to make ase of all her 
effects tow ards its support. Vet notwith- 
standing, whatever was possible to he 
done in Lis favor, would be most willingly 
and tenderly pat in practice; and thus 
ended this painful and affecting trial. 



144 



LETTER XXVII. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 

IN CONTINUATION, 

Next morning the divine, * who had 
been previously sent for, arrived. At the 
news, she appeared to be very happy ; and 
his conversation, and concluding interces- 
sion at the throne of mercy was such, as 
I hoped might aftbrd her much consola- 
tion ; yet her senses were so debilitated, 
that though she listened with extreme at- 
tention, yet she seemed not fully to com- 
prehend what was said, and indeed she 
never after possessed her reason, but by 
momentary intervals ; at which times she 
would be anxiously solicitous with her 
father, to see that I was reimbursed, par- 
ticularizing some articles of clothing 
(which did not depend on the size of the 
wearerf to render useful) and desired they 
might be given immediately to her 

* Mr. Nichols. t See Letter XX. 



145 

" mamma, M mementos of her gratitude 
and affection" You, my etister, who 
know my heart, can judge of my motives 
for being thus minute! which is to show 
you the worth of the deal child we hare 
lost : and to evince the imbecility of that 
mistaken prejudice, which teaches as 
thai step-parents and children can have 
no affection far each other, merely be* 
cause they are such. 

Day after day passed, and one contin- 
ued scene of distress surrounded u>. And 
though each medicine operated agreeably 
to its peculiar properties, yel they foiled 
of their much-desired effect; whirl] plain- 
ly evinced there was do derangement in 
any pari of the human structure, which 
was in the j>< dicine to reach; 

and though our kind friends, the physi- 
cians, had little reason to hope, y< t so 
desirous were they to restore her if p 
sible, thai they ceased not their attentions 
till the last moments. It would have 
melted a heart of adamant, to hive seen 
her one day in the course of her delirium. 
which had now become almost continual. 

13 



146 

Fancying, as we conjectured, that the 
officers had come for her ; and probably 
retaining some faint recollections, that I 
had once * saved her, she cried out in 
the most fearful agony: "Dear mamma ! 
save ! Oh ! save me ! they have come to 
carry me away ! " Then clinching both 
my hands, she clung to me, almost lift- 
ing herself out of bed, still crying: " Do, 
dear mamma, call more help; or they 
will take me away from you ! " This 
distress, which language has no power to 
paint, lasted almost an hour, before she 
could be calmed by any or all our exer- 
tions. After that, she noticed one of her 
brothers, who was sitting a little dis- 
tance from her. She conceived him to 
be her eldest, whom she had not seen 
for several years (as he lived far from us); 
she therefore called me to her ; desired 
he would sit down, and asked him in the 
most pathetic manner, after the state of 
his soul ; recommending to him in the 
strongest colors, the necessity of living 

* See Letter XVIII. 



147 

agreeably to the commands of God, 
through his dear Son. She then contin- 
ued calm till some time in the evening; 
when all the family were at supper, 
excepting our youngest daughter and one 

of the JTOOng ladies who had eome to sit 

up, wo were much surprised at hearing 
the sounds of soft music* We all rose 
precipitately and rushed into the room; 

whore we beheld our child, our dear 

Lcinda, with her eyes fixed on vacancy, 
who in sweet and melodious accents, 
rendered tremulous by the cold hand of 
death, was thus addressing that Being 

whom she adored : 

r JetOt, how delightful ' 
Huv sweet thy e: -nts are, 

For those blessM saints who taste ftbtt 
Redeeming grace and heavenly love." 

Her lovely bosom heaved with the fer- 
vor of devotion; and apparently insens- 
ible to every surrounding object, she con- 
tinued Ringing Ibr some time ; and though 
we distinctly heard the preceding lin 
yet in vain did we endeavor to catch the 
rest. The organs of speech being much 



148 

debilitated, the sounds were mostly inar- 
ticulate ; yet were they pathetically de- 
scriptive of the internal joys of a soul, 
just verging on the confines of life, with 
full assurance of a blissful eternity. To 
attempt describing my sensations at that 
moment, would be vain, as the shadowy 
joys of the sensualist, who builds his 
hope of happiness on sublunary gratifi- 
cations. She continued to sing at short 
intervals through the night. From that 
time she appeared to have little solicitude 
for any thing except her babe ; for that 
she would frequently ask, and when 
brought, would fondly press it to her 
dying bosom. Thus she continued for 
two days longer. At 12 o'clock on the 
second night, the family were all called. 
A cold sweat having overspread her whole 
frame it was apparent the last agonies 
were approaching. But as she seemed 
to lie for some time without any visible 
change, and being much indisposed both 
in body and mind, I again lay down, re- 
questing to be spoken to on the least 
change ; but as there appeared none, I 



149 

till morning. When I arose, and 
went into the room, she looked at me. 
and distinctly pronounced these words: 

"Oh! mamma! you ha*e tatm again; 

now if I ran make you understand mo, 
I shall be happy. " I hastened to her, 
readied her my hand, which she took. 
and grasping it with all her might, again 
endeavored t<> speak; hut it was impos- 
sible ; the sounds died on her tongue ! 
Bhe exerted all her facilities; she drew 
my face down to bert; hut all to no pur- 
pose. She could not articulate q single 
sound, whereby I could catch the least 
idea of what she wished to say. The hand 

with which she had grasped mine appa- 
rently growing weaker, she also took her 

other, and seeming to fear lot I should 

Leave her before she was able to speak, held 
me with all her strength, notwithstand- 
ing all my endeavors to make her sensi- 
ble that J Would not. Judge, my sister, 
what must have been my feelings. I 
would have given worlds, had I posses* 
them, to have known her desires ! Thus 
after exerting herself till she was quite 



150 

spent to no purpose, she dismissed the 
idea. I have since endeavored to recon- 
cile myself, by this — about an hour after- 
wards she spoke plain, and said that a 
noise disturbed her. It is probable, as 
there were several in the room who were 
speaking when I first went in, that might 
be what she wished to make me under- 
stand. I will at least endeavor to believe, 
there was nothing else she wished to com- 
municate. A little while after, as her 
brothers, sisters and I surrounded her bed, 
she regarded us with the most expressive 
looks, apparently distinguishing us ail- 
But missing her father asked for him. I 
told her he would be here in a few mo- 
ments. She then appeared calm — her 
lips only moved. I could sometimes 
catch the sweet sound of " Dear Jesus !" 
Her father soon came in ; she regarded 
him with a look of tenderness but did not 
speak. Soon after she ceased to notice 
anything; her eyes were fixed in death. 
The struggles were long and painful — I 
can not dwell on them. Suffice it to say. 
that on the 20th of June, 1806, between 



151 

the hours of 11 and 12, A. M. she ceased 
to breathe ; and her purified and disin- 
enmbered soul, flew to the bosom of its 
God! 



152 



LETTER XXVIII. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 

IN CONTINUATION. 

That sweet smile with which, through 
all her distresses she had met every 
friend, was now indelibly stamped by 
the seal of death. Nor had the grim 
messenger left any traces of his unrivalled 
power behind save the lily's mantle. In- 
deed, Nancy, such was the beauteous 
corpse, that I could have contemplated 
it for hours, with celestial delight ! There 
now remained to be fulfilled our last du- 
ties to the dear departed one ; and as she 
was to be laid in our family burying 
ground, and our little habitation being far 
in the Mountain, for the convenience of 
each sympathizing friend who wished to 
attend on this last solemn occasion, it 
was thought advisable, that the corpse 
should be conveyed to a small public 



153 

building, which you may perhaps recol- 
lect, about a mile north of the Burying 
Hill, and that there the funeral sermon 
should be preached, where a very apt and 
pathetic discourse was delivered by the 
Rev, Mr. Nichols, from the first Epistle 
general of Peter, Chap, iii, 10th, 11th, 
and 12th verses. It there is a consola- 
tion to be derived from sympathy, and 
certainly there is. we have much reason 
to 1 efuL The impressions our mis- 

fortunes had made on the hearts of our 
neighbors for many miles round, was 
moM feelingly exhibited, not merely in 
this Last day's attention, in which many 
Came up the Mountain to aS8is1 tie 
kind friends who came with carriages to 
convey tie 1 COrpm and mourners down to 

the valley, hut even through the course of 

tin* latter part of our distresses, when as- 
sistance had become necessary, their 
goodne>s was indescribable. To particu- 
larize any individual, would he doing in- 
justice to the rest of our friends, so uni- 
versal were those acts of "beneficence, 
which only can he estimated by that Om- 



154 

nipresent power, whose infinite wisdom 
presides over all his works, and who 
holdeth in his right hand the rewards of 
virtue. 



156 

LETTER XXIX. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER 

IN CON I INI A I 

The third day after the interment, our 
daughter Eliza, whose tender solicitude 
through those painful - . had greatly 

alleviated my cares, took an affectionate 
leave of as, and returned to those dear 
friends, who had been to her as second, 

but real parents. She had promised her 

dying sister, thai should it ever be in her 

power, she would take her infant. "But at 
present, that was impossible. Never, 

never shall T forget the day, when elop- 
ing her feeble arms around my neck, she 
begged me to he a mother to it. saying 
her father had already promised his pro- 
teelion : yet she was miieli distressed on 
account of my ill health. Never before 
had T felt so desirous of possessing a eom- 
peteney which might have given her a 
more full assurance ; yet I hesitated not 
to follow the dictates of my heart, in tell- 



156 

mg her that her dear bate should never 
suffer, while God gave us the means to 
prevent it ; and desired her not to be 
grieved on my account, for perhaps we 
might be able to procure a nurse for it, 
until it should need less attention ; and 
should Providence so direct that it should 
be brought up with us, it should be 
educated as our own, and share the 
same tenderness. Here my sister, let me 
assure you, that I feel my promise no 
burden on my heart, for should the cruel 
father elude the cries of nature and justice 
and we receive no assistance from any 
other quarter, never can I see the dear 
innocent suffer, while God gives me 
strength to labor. Farewell. 



157 

LETTER XXX. 

mrs. manvill to her sister. 

Dear Sister, 

Overpowered by a complication of ten- 
der and painful ideas, \ Lei) you abruptly, 
and indulged in a torrent of tears, I am 
now Bomewhal relieved, and will hasten 
to conclude my melancholy tale* Our 
sweet babe (who was three weeks old 
when itfl mamma departed life) is aowat 
norse in a very tender and affectionate 
family, where every necessary attention 

will be paid it, oven BION than my loudest 

fare could accomplish in my present state 
of health. F yesterday had the melan- 
choly satisfaction of pressing the dear lit- 
tle orphan to my bosom, and bathing it 
with tears, while my heart involuntarily 
renewed its promise, of lasting love and 

tendering 

How many things combine to perpetu- 
ate the memory of our dear Lucinda. In 
14 



158 

a visit to my friends in the valley a few 
days since, I first passed the log # on which 
I found her sitting the last time she walk- 
ed out; next the bier on which her corpse 
was carried, till the carriage could receive 
it ; and even the veil I wore, which in my 
absencef she had added to a suit of mourn- 
ing, which at her request I had put in re- 
pair a few days before, having been some- 
time since I wore them, and which she 
then observed, lacked only a veil ; the will 
she had written previous to her last dis- 
tresses, and at the time when she did not 
expect that either herself or infant would 
survive them, has just been put into my 
hands for my persual, by her father, in 
whose care it has been; and though the 
contents are now of no use, yet they have 
done honor to the heart that dictated 
them. 

Adieu, my dear Nancy ! and believe that 
through all the vicissitudes of this proba- 
tory state, I am the same unchangeable 
friend and affectionate sister, whose heart, 
as an assistant to the best of parents, you 

* See Letter XX t See Letter XXI. 



159 

have measurably formed. Again adieu. 

P. D. MAN V ILL. 

P. 8. I here inclose a monumental in- 
scription, dictated by maternal lo\ 

MONUMENTAL [N3CJUPTK 

U was thy sou .ir, 

As fragrant blossoms, tipt with morning dews; 
Till love, enthusiastic joys declare, 

som for admission sues. 

; irit, from the bless'd abode, 
: a thy guardian friend to be, 
To paint the man. who has derVd his God-, 

And fro .-s, to set I I Vee. 

IptCtMfU is impious breast, 

When at thy feet, bit rail hi 

Foul rankPd vengeance, evrry MTT6 impressM, 
And fell deceit by Satan's u vM. 

inger to guile, and artless as the d« 
The dire event, ne'er wakM thy ihimbei 
As gentle guests receiv'd the shafts of I 
Nor knew the shades of death, were hov'ring ne 

Ye beauteous fair, who these sad truths shall learn, 
Admit the sacred warning to your breasts; 

h piteous tears, bedew Luanda's urn, 
Where love's sad victim, shrouded — IW] 

OF MR. BROWN. 
As it is natural to .suppose, that those 
who may read this little volume wiU be 
desirous of hearing something further re- 



160 

specting the wretched author of the ca- 
lamitous events it contains, I conceive it 
my duty to inform them, that a few weeks 
after the preceding letters were written. 
the young gentleman who had been com- 
missioned to call on Mr. Brown, returned 
with the following account: He found 
him at Marcellus, and after acquainting 
him with the importance of hi* busin< 
was answered, or rather questioned Sfl fol- 
lows: 

Brown. — "Why was I not informed of 
the circumstances I I would have come 
down immediately ! " 

Officer. — "I understood you were. M 

Brown. — u Not lately; and I scorn the 
public should take it up ; hut she shall 
fare ne'er the better for this. n 

Officer. — " Nor ne'er the worse, I pre- 



sume. " 



Brown. — " Where is she \ w 

Officer. — Tn Heaven, I trust ! M 

Brown. — Is she dead M 1 

And being- answered in the afiirmath 
a long silence succeeded; his mantle of 
delusion was measurably thrown off; 1 



p 

ray of reason wma his t u*d 

inn iw thr hii of his an- 

tici| triumph ! Bu1 alas ! the iVuit 

wa* unpleasant 1—1 trot whirl 

had fbUawed d isa ppe a red In' now 
I hi-* hnppim distant 

re from w hich he had bH i md n<> 

ed, that iiiiLilit 

ia ■ raft him through 

the chani and dismay, t hat 

I hi^ passa<n th After 

pone moments of apparent agitation, h<* 

Lucinda t I ; I 

■he was my * it ; ' by 

gagementa j her child 

i- mine, ami I \s ill be a father to i1 M» 

i without besil mplied with 

thr reqnii f the law 

iTiirity lor it> Mip] i I And h< 
foi the present, e him to the 

gloomy reflect* baring contracted 

a debt he can neyei pay ; sincerely a ish- 

on of the incurable 

ukU he has made in the bosom <>f a 

one.' happy famil] gethet with his 

own p< a. honor and 



162 

happiness, may so lead him to a sense of 
his unprecedented crimes, as shall pro- 
duce that unfeigned repentance, which 
shall procure him pardon at the hand of 
an offended, but merciful God. 



163 



LETTER XXXI. 

MRS. MANVILL TO HER BI8T1 

bong, long, my d< tor, have 1 ecu* 

templateld writing, but as often as] have 
attempted to take the pen, have I been 
withheld from the painfuJ idea of ad- 
dressing one, who might no Longer be an 
Inhabitant of this U tl globe ; conse- 

quently, that tender solicitude to know the 
sequri of those melancholy communica- 
tions received from me, in the jrear 1806, 
opuld no more stimulate that Laudable 
anxiety, which dictated your last enquiry. 
And can you l>< i surprised at my fears, 
when I assure yon. thai more than three 
years have elapg ace I had the plea- 

sure of receiving one line from you. 

Passing over the concerns of our family 
in general, this Letter shall be principally 
confined to one subject — that of our little 
orphan grandchild, whom we took from 



164 

nurse, two years ago last April. She has 
ever since lived not merely in the bosom 
of our family, but likewise in the heart of 
each individual of it; and has become the 
sweet cement of universal love. Julia, on 
whose care she has more particularly de- 
pended, is so much attached to her, that 
I believe nothing but death wall ever be 
able to displace the reciprocated tie. 

You will recollect, perhaps, that our 
daughter Eliza, in consideration of my ill 
health, had promised her dying sister, that 
should she ever be settled in life, she 
would take care of her infant. She is now 
apparently, happily united to a Mr. Dunn- 
ing, a young gentleman of a respectable 
family and flattering prospects, who has 
recently made us a visit, and joined his 
request to take our little darling under 
their protection. But indeed we knew 
not how to part with her. Perhaps we 
shall be censured by some, for not accept- 
in? their srenerous offer ; while others 
might have condemned our acquiescence 
as the offspring of sinister motives. And 
really, Nancy, set apart my affections for 



1G5 

the lovely babe (whose ways are calcu- 
lated to attract general love) never did I 
find the line of duty bo difficult to be kept, 
n in the present Instance. Shall I portray 
the peculiar circumstances I I anticipate 
your reply. Observe then, that Mr. Man* 
vi 11 and myself, both previous and alter 
(jiliz ader promise, had assured the 

dear anxious Lncinda, that \\< i would 

r. to the utmost of our abilities, be the 
real parents of her hapless orphan j and 
hence our little Pollt who was called 
alter Lucinda's own mother, < ontinues to 

a much loved mem ' our humble 

family. 

[Thus far, as it r e s p ects the innocent 
offspring of the unfortunate sufferer, I 
have stated facts which have fallen under 
my own obs erva tion ; but with regard to 
the cried assassin, I inuM be content with 
relating the most accurate accounts we 
have heen able to procure. For this ibur 

ITS pa>t, various have heen the reports 
of his regrets, his Intemperance, his in- 
sanity, fee, together with innumerable 
judgments that must nearly have filled 



166 

up the measure of his days ; and though 
not sufficiently authenticated to obtain 
undoubted credence, yet all served to 
corroborate the idea of his fall from that 
fancied height on which he stood, when 
our ill fated daughter became the victim 
of his lust. The following, however, is 
the report of a gentleman of veracity, 
who has recently returned from an excur- 
sion to the west. These are his words : 
" all the information I could obtain re- 
specting Mr. Brown, is that some time 
since he became reduced to the most ex- 
treme poverty, and is now, literally speak- 
ing, a vagabond ; supporting himself by 
the mean employment of a fiddler, a just 
reward for his perfidy." Thus we see the 
ultimate end of all his boasted acquire- 
ments. Pope very aptly observes : 

11 Of all the causes, which conspire to blind 
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, 
What th<* weak head with strongest bias rules, 
Is pride the never failing vice of fools/' 

It seems, my dear Nancy, as if this 
misguided and now wretched man, has 
been a compound of every vice, among 



u;: 

which pride seemed to predominate, lie 
IS now bumbled to the dust; his gaudy 
trappinir of tinseled greatness bo longer 
screens hia perjured heart. And what — 
ah ! what must be hia sensations I For 
Miely hia forlorn and despised situation, 
must often awaken in his mind, i recofe 
|ection of the pasl ; when the puresi prin- 
ciples of virtue aw aited bis embrace, and 
would Inr d liini to the man- 

sioi ternal bliss. Hut no, I mistake. 

Be i- merely bumbled in externals, the 
r momenta of reflection, hai e 
never risited him; neither baa the influ- 
of Divine love, illuminated his 
gloomy sou] with the smallest conceptions 
of hie crimes, or be must before this, 
have How ii on the wing of penitence to 
have elapsed in lii ized bosom, all 

that remains of the lovely woman whom 
be has sacrificed, and implore through 
her, pardon of her sainted mother. But, 
alas ! his stubborn will seeks no palliation 
tor the wrongs he haa committed; for 
notwithstanding his voluntary engaj 
ments, to become the father of the sw< i I 



168 

babe, and his ready submission to the dr- 
mand of public justice, by giving bail for 
Ltssupporl ; yet 1ms he been totally regard- 
less of the former, emd by §ome, to me 
inexplicable means, has hitherto avoided 
the latter. Bui h< fliorl sighted 

man may err, the lawa of Heaven an 
equitable. To that tribunal let us see\ 
for thai justice, which is denied us In 

I an), my dear sister, 
four 1 1- u 1 > affectionat( 

P. D. MANY1I.L. 

Greenfield, December, 81, imo. 



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